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SHEILA 


BY 

ANNIE S. (SWAN) 

(Mrs. Burnett Smith) 

AUTHOR OF ‘QATE3 OF EDEN,* * BRIAR AND TAUfl 
*ST. VEDA'S,* ETC. 




( AUG 7 1 


CINCINNATI: 

CRANSTON AND STOWE, 

NEW YORK: 

HUNT AND EATON. 
























* 












































/ 



























































f 


H 












fipEHiCRH Edition. 


Ti)i? book is published by us up- 
der special copbracb ^ribb> 

• • MESSRS. OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER, • • 

of Edii)bur£b> Scoblapd. We b aYe 

90 b c b a P^ed bbe ori^i^al orbitogra- 
phy, 'W'bicb Y urie^ ^li^b^y frorr) our 
An>erica9 Sbapdards. 

GRANSTON & STOWE. 













































































































TO 


HER GRACE 

THE DUCHESS-DOWAGER OF ATHOLE . 

Lady, I lay these pages at thy feet : 

Writ \ as thou know'st, among the silent hills , 

By the swift-flowing stream , whose murmuring voice 
Bears in its tone the music of the past . 

And if the record of the young heart's life , 

The heritage of joy , the cross of pain , 

By which on earth it is made meet for Heav'n, 

Awake in thine a tender memory 

Of other days , when that bright radiant light , 

The love which is life’s croivn , illumined thine , 

It is enough : I lay it at thy feet. 


Annie S. Swan . 


NOTE. 


This tale lias already appeared in serial form under the title of 
‘ Over the Hills and Far Away/ The change has been rendered 
necessary by the fact that the former title has been copyrighted by 
another author. 


Annie S. Swan, 



CONTENTS. 


CHAP. PAGB 

I. THE LAIRD’S WOOING, • 9 

II. BROTHER AND SISTER, . . , . .19 

III. LADY AILSA’S OPINION, ..... 28 

IV. WELCOME HOME, . . , . .37 

V. TnE KIRK OF AMULREE, . . , .46 

VI. THE NETHER MILLSTONE, . . , .55 

VII. BAIRN DAYS, ...... 63 

VIII. AMONG THE FAULD FOLK, . . . .72 

IX. THE SHADOW OF DEATH, . , , .84 

X. ESTRANGED, ...... 93 

XI. A WILY PLOTTER, . . . . .103 

XII. FACTOR AND LAIRD, . . . . .113 

XIII. FORESHADOWINGS, ..... 122 

XIV. MALCOLM, ...... 130 

XV. UNCLE GRAHAM, . . . , .139 

XVI. MOTHER AND SON, . . . . .148 

XVII. CHUMS, ...... 157 

XVIII. HOME AGAIN, ...... 166 


vii 



viii CONTENTS \ 

CHAP PAOB 

XIX. THE LAST MEETING, . . . . .175 

XX. AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER, . . . .184 

XXI. ‘farewell to lociiaber,’ . . . .192 

xxii. sheila’s inheritance, .... 202 

XXIII. PLANS, . . . . , .210 

XXIV. THE AWAKENING, . . ... ,218 

xxy. home, ...... 225 

XXVI. HER OWN FOLK, ..... 233 

XXVII. HER RESOLVE, ..... 241 

xxviii. cousins, ...... 249 

xxix. scheming still, ..... 258 

xxx. love’s young dream, .... 265 

XXXI. IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL, .... 273 

xxxii. alastair’s wooing, ..... 281 

XXXIII. THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR, . . . 290 

XXXIV. NEW year’s MORN, ..... 299 

XXXV. SIGNS OF EVIL, ..... 307 

XXXVI. MY WIFE, ...... 315 

XXXVII. A DARK NIGHT, . . . . . 323 

XXXVIII. PEACE, . . . . . .331 

xxxix. Macdonald’s last will, .... 338 

XL. ‘THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMINV . . . 345 

XLI. A maiden’s HEART, •. . . . .353 

XLII. ‘a judeecious fricht/ .... 361 

XLIII. love’s CROWN, • . . . . 371 



SHEILA. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE LAIRD’S WOOING. 

‘Might we but share one wild caress. 

Ere life’s autumnal blossoms fall?* 

0. W. Holmes. 


I1EILA, are you ever a moment still ? You’ll have 
every spring in mamma’s poor old couch broken.* 
The reproof was very gently uttered, in a sweet, 
caressing voice, but the child to whom it was 
administered felt it to be a reproof, and, desisting from her 
boisterous gambolling with Tory, her little fox terrier, came 
close to her mother’s side and looked up into her face. They 
were mother and child, though one would scarcely have 
imagined it. The mother’s golden brown hair was confined 
under a close widow’s cap, but the sweet, somewhat careworn 
face under it seemed only a girl’s. Edith Murray had kept 
her youth well, though she had been a widow for nearly five 
years. Her white hand rested lovingly on the child’s tumbled 
brown curls, and she smiled into the large, soft, hazel eyes, 
so like her own, which were uplifted to her face. 

‘Well, Sheila, what now? * 

‘ Can Anne take me, mamma, away up the river, Tory and 
me? I m so tired staying in the house.’ 





IO 


SHEILA. 


‘Not to-day, darling. Mamma will need you by and by. 
But you and Tory may go out to the garden for a frolic, only 
don’t let him chew Anne’s linen bleaching on the grass.’ 

‘Very well, mamma, thank you. Come, Tory, Tory; oh, 
you dear, funny little dog ! ’ 

She went through the wide open window on to the little 
lawn like an arrow, Tory tumbling and rolling on the top of 
her, chewing her sash ribbons and snapping at her toes. They 
were both babies, and the one enjoyed the fun as much as the 
other. Sheila Murray, the widow’s one child, and therefore 
boundlessly precious, seemed to bear a charmed life. She 
was filled with frolic and fun, and was never a moment still 
from the time the big hazel eyes opened in the morning till 
the sleepy lids drooped over them at night. But though she 
had been in perils oft, and had been nearly drowned in the 
swift Tay more than once, her escapes neither sobered nor 
frightened her. She did not even know the meaning of fear. 

It was not often Edith Murray sat with idle hands, but after 
child and dog had disappeared through the high privet hedge 
into the back garden, she sat quite still, looking in the direction 
they had taken, but her thoughts had not followed them. 
‘It is for the child’s sake,’ she whispered to herself after a 
while. ‘ And what have I to do with the world, or the world 
with me ? ’ 

It was as if she had been balanced between two opinions, 
hesitating between two diverging paths, and had suddenly 
found strength of mind to decide. Her face cleared of its 
anxious expression, and a kind of sunny brightness seemed 
to pervade her whole being. But she was feeling nervous, 
for, in spite of her outward self-control, her hands trembled 
when she took up the little frock she had been embroidering 
for her child. 

Though still young in years, Edith Murray was old in the 
experience of life. She was English by birth, and connected 
with a very old Lincolnshire family. But the branch to which 
she belonged had been very poor, and when she found herself 
early orphaned, she had to face the world in her search for 
daily bread. She had rich and titled relations, but they knew 


THE LAIRD'S WOOING. 


11 


not the poor, obscure girl who made an appeal for their aid. 
They advised her to try the usual medium through which 
teaching appointments are to be got, and washed their hands 
of her. That bitter sting remained long in Edith Chesney’s 
gentle heart; but she was fortunate beyond others of her class in 
finding a home and friends among strangers. She left England 
to become governess in the family of a Scotch baronet, w r hose 
residence was in Perthshire, five miles from the ancient and 
picturesque town of Dunkeld. Sir Douglas Murray himself 
was a stiff, proud, unyielding man, whom not many loved; 
but his wife, Lady Ailsa, was one of the sweetest and best of 
women. Although an earl’s daughter herself, she made the 
friendless orphan feel truly at home in Murray shaugh, and 
among her four boy pupils Edith Chesney was very happy. 
She had not been long an inmate of the house, however, when 
Alastair Murray, Sir Douglas’s brother, a lieutenant in the 
93rd Highlanders, fell in love with the sweet, gentle, gracious 
girl who taught his brother’s boys. Of course there was the 
usual opposition from the bridegroom’s family. Not only did 
they object to the marriage from motives of pride, but also of 
prudence, for Alastair had not a farthing in the world but his 
lieutenant’s pay. But when did young love ever count pounds, 
shillings, and pence? They were married, and though barrack 
life had its drawbacks, and it was no easy task to lay out their 
meagre income judiciously, they were ridiculous enough to 
be perfectly happy and contented for a few brief months in 
Edinburgh Castle, until the gallant 93rd was ordered to the 
Crimea. Then husband and wife parted, not knowing they 
should meet no more on earth. 

When Edith was ill at Murrayshaugh, and a week-old baby 
in the cot, the news came home that Lieutenant Alastair 
Murray had fallen in the trenches before Sebastopol. The 
poor young widow and her baby-daughter were thus left 
entirely dependent on the Murrays. Sir Douglas did his 
duty, as he saw it, but it was done in a spirit which could 
not fail to wound a sensitive soul. 

He gave her one of his own cottages in Birnam, paid her 
servant’s wages, and gave her fifty pounds a year. This, Lady 


12 


SHEILA. 


Ailsa, out of the loving-kindness of her heart, and unknown 
indeed to her husband, supplemented with many a kind and 
handsome gift. Sir Douglas regarded his sister-in-law as a 
burden upon him, and one which ought never to have been 
laid upon him. But though he gave her of his substance 
grudgingly, he frowned her down when she had meekly 
suggested trying to earn her own living, as she had done 
previous to her marriage. 

‘Remember, Mrs. Alastair, you are one of 11 us” now/ he 
had said, with his haughty head high in the air, and the most 
unbending severity of look and tone. So poor Mrs. Alastair 
could only eat meekly of the bread of charit} 7 , and how bitter 
she found it to the taste no one but herself knew. But for 
her child’s love, and her faith in God’s care, she would 
have given way to despair. There were times, however, 
when looking forward she did despair. Year by year, as Sheila 
grew older, expenses were increasing. More cloth was required 
for the little frocks, and a few shillings more for boots and 
slippers — and what was to become of the child’s future? 
Mrs. Alastair was a great deal alone, and she brooded over 
these things perhaps more than she ought. An occasional 
dinner at Murrayshaugh was her only experience of social 
life, and though she never failed to impress Lady Ailsa’s 
guests with her sweetness and grace, the idea that any one 
could be specially interested in her never presented itself to 
her mind. She believed that she had lived her life, but she 
had that day received a great surprise— the greatest, indeed, 
which had ever ruffled the quiet current of her days. She 
took the letter from her pocket, and read it again for the 
twentieth time. It was very short, and very much to the 
point. The concluding sentences appealed to something in 
her heart she had fancied no power on earth could again 
awaken. ‘You are the only woman I have ever seen who 
ever cost me a second thought. If you w 7 ill marry me, I will 
do my utmost to make you happy. What your answer may 
mean to me I can scarcely permit myself to think. Madam, 
I cannot w r ait for it. I will therefore call to-morrow afternoon 
to receive it from your own lips.* 


THE LAIRD'S WOOING. 


*3 


Such were the words Edith Murray had read so often that 
day that they seemed engraven on her heart. Her eyes were 
fixed upon them when she heard the sharp click of the garden 
gate and a firm step on the gravelled walk. Then the bell rang, 
and almost before she could collect her wavering, trembling 
senses, the visitor was announced. 

‘Mr. Graham Macdonald.’ 

Mrs. Alastair rose hurriedly to her feet, and, with crimson 
face, extended her hand in greeting. 

‘ I hope I see you well, madam ? 9 Macdonald said, with a 
rugged, old-fashioned courtesy ; but his deep, keen, flashing 
blue eye dwelt on the sweet face as if he sought to read her 
very soul. 

Tall, broad-shouldered, strong of limb and will, was this 
rugged Highland laird, who had done his wooing in such a 
rough and ready fashion without any of the preliminaries of 
courting. He had but seen her tw'ice at Murrayshaugh, but the 
first time he took her in to dinner he knew that if she w r ould 
have him he would make her his wife. Macdonald was not 
handsome, but he had a powerful and not ungraceful figure, 
a striking if rather stern-looking face, and an honest, flashing 
eye, which had never feared the face of man. He was a 
descendant of an old and honourable family, who had at one 
time held large estates in the far north. But the vicissitudes 
of w r ar and the fickleness of fortune had wrested these from it. 
It was only after the rebellion of ’45 that Dalmore, in Glen- 
quaich, and Findowie, in Strathbraan — the present estates of 
the Macdonalds — came into the possession of the family. 
Graham Macdonald was a proud man, and had the reputation 
of being hard of heart and greedy of gold. But the man had 
another side — a fine, generous, loveable side — which w T as now 
to come to the front. Until love for this woman had touched 
his being, he had had no experience of the sweeter influences 
of life. Love was not the less sincere, and even passionate, 
that it had come to him so late. He w T as now in his fifty- 
fifth year. Hasty of action, though somewhat slow of speech, 
he had risked his happiness on the very slight acquaintance 
he had with Mrs. Alastair, and now had come in person for 


14 


SHEILA. 


his answer. He did not sit down in her presence, though she 
begged him to do so. He saw her extreme nervousness — 
indeed, the fluctuating colour on her face and the downcast, 
womanly manner might have given him hope — but what did 
the grim Laird of Dalmore know of women and their ways? 

Mrs. Alastair saw that she must speak, for the Laird had not 
a word to say for himself now he had come for his answer. 
But while she was trying to find words to open the conversa- 
tion, they were interrupted by Tory’s sharp little bark and the 
sound of hurrying feet, and the next moment Sheila darted 
into the room. She was not a shy child, and she rushed at 
once to the Laird’s side and thrust her hand into his pocket. 

4 Sheila, Sheila ! you naughty child,* said Mrs. Alastair 
reprovingly. 4 Run away to Anne.’ 

Macdonald stooped down and took the child in his strong 
arms, and instantly her little hands clasped his neck, and she 
bent upon him the pair of loveliest, most innocent baby eyes he 
had ever seen. 

4 Any rock ? ’ 

4 No, but there’s something to buy it with in the pockets you 
were at just now,* said the Laird, with a smile which Mrs. 
Alastair thought made his face almost handsome. 4 1 have just 
been asking your mamma to come and live at my house, Sheila, 
you and she, and you would have a pony to ride on, and all 
sorts of things.’ 

‘We’ll go to-morrow,’ said Sheila, quite excitedly; ‘is it far 
away ? ’ 

4 Not very ; but see what mamma says. I think she is not 
quite sure about it,’ said Macdonald, finding a fine easy way 
out of his dilemma. Poor, innocent Sheila! she was quite 
unconscious what a momentous question she was called upon to 
decide. 

4 Oh, mamma always does what I want.,’ said Sheila, with 
delightful confidence. 4 How soon can we go ? To-morrow ? 
Will you take us after breakfast ? Anne gives me my porridge 
at eight, mamma has her coffee at nine. We’ll go at ten ! ’ 

4 Oh, Sheila, Sheila ! ’ Mrs. Alastair rose with crimson face, 
and rang the bell. 


THE LAIRD'S WOOING. 


i5 

4 Take Sheila away, Anne/ she said, when the girl came. 

4 Keep her with you till I ring.’ 

So Sheila was ignominiously dismissed, but she had settled 
the question all the same, and both the Laird and Mrs. Alastair 
knew it. 

Macdonald sat down beside her, and took her soft hand in 
his. 4 You will never regret it, madam/ he said, in his some- 
what formal way, 4 nor shall Sheila. I owe her a great deal for 
helping me out of this dilemma/ 

So they laughed, and shook hands upon it, and were very 
happy in a kind of sober fashion, as befitted a pair whose first 
youth was past. 

4 Mr. Macdonald/ said Mrs. Alastair, after a little, 4 do you 
think your sister will be quite pleased at this? ’ 

4 She may or she may not. Ellen is rather queer/ said the 
Laird briefly. 4 It has suited her to dwell with me since the 
minister of Meildemore died, but there was no promise given 
that Dalmore should be a permanent home. She and the boy 
shall never want; and even if I do nothing for them, her own 
portion would be sufficient for his rearing. She talks whiles of 
making him a minister, but truly I think the lad too manly 
ever to put on gown and bands.’ 

4 Does she know you are here to-day ? 9 

4 No ; my business is my own business, and she’ll get to 
know in good time/ said Macdonald grimly. 4 You need not 
be surprised if she pays you a visit soon. That would be the 
right thing, wouldn’t it ? ’ 

A slight shadow crossed Edith Murray’s fair face. 

4 1 am afraid of Mrs. Macleod. She was very distant and 
haughty, I thought, the last time I met her at Murray shaugh/ 
she said timidly. 

4 You need not be. Ellen is an ill woman to bide with, I’ll 
admit, but you will not require to bide with her. She shall 
have a house of her own before you come to Dalmore.’ 

4 1 fear she will not bear me any goodwill for her own and 
her boy’s sake/ said Edith Murray, with a sigh. 4 1 wish I 
knew whether I am doing right?’ 

4 If you are doing that which your heart tells you, madam, 


i6 


SHEILA. 


it is right. And why should I not be allowed to choose my 
wife as Ellen herself chose her husband, and a fine noise there 
was about that. The minister of Meiklemore was not con- 
sidered a fit mate for a Macdonald of Dalmore.’ 

‘ So I have heard them say ; but I should not like to bring 
dispeace into Dalmore,’ said Edith Murray, still anxiously, 
though Macdonald’s hearty manner somewhat reassured her. 

‘ You have made me a happy man this day,’ he said, when 
he rose to go ; and certainly he looked it. 

‘ I hope I shall always be able to make you happy,’ Edith 
answered ; for her heart warmed to him, he was so honest, and 
straightforward, and true. 

‘You will be kind to Sheila?’ she interposed, as they parted ; 
though she had no real misgivings about it. And what could 
Macdonald say but that he would love the child for her dear 
sake ? 

As he rode away from the gate of the cottage, a carriage and 
pair swept over the bridge from Dunkeld. Its occupants were 
a lady and gentleman, Sir Douglas Murray and his fair wife — 
Mrs. Alastair’s aristocratic kindred. They looked at each other 
in amazement at sight of Macdonald. 

‘ Can he have been seeing Edith ? ’ Lady Ailsa asked in 
wonder. 

‘ It looks like it ; but you’ll hear about it presently,’ Sir 
Douglas answered, in his short way. ‘Well, we’ve ten minutes 
to make a call, so don’t get into an endless gossip.’ 

‘ Oh, Douglas, you are hard upon me,’ laughed his wife, as 
she sprang lightly from the carriage at her sister-in-law’s gate. 

Edith Murray saw them come, and wondered in what words 
she would break to them the event of the day. Gentle though 
she was by nature, she could not help a slight thrill of pride at 
the thought that she was the promised wife of a man whose 
great possessions far exceeded the heritage of the proud 
Murrays of Murrayshaugh. 

‘ You have had a caller, Mrs. Alastair,’ said Sir Douglas, 
with that slight sarcasm of manner which made him feared of 
many ; ‘ it is not often Dalmore condescends to make polite 
calls.’ 


THE LAIRD'S WOOING. 


i7 


Mrs. Alastair sat down suddenly, for she was trembling in 
every limb. The colour came and went fitfully across her 
sweet face, as she lifted her eyes with firmness to the face of 
her husband’s brother. He was the head of the family, and it 
was her duty to acquaint him with the object of Dalmore’s visit. 

4 Mr. Macdonald came to see me to-day, Sir Douglas, on a 
special errand,’ she said quietly and with dignity, though her 
cheeks and hands were hotly flushed. 4 He has done me the 
honour to ask me to be his wife.’ 

4 Bless my heart and soul ! ’ 

Sir Douglas forgot his starched dignity for a moment, and 
stared in the most profound amazement. 4 His wife, Lady of 
Dalmore and Findowie, Mrs. Alastair ? Impossible ! ’ 

4 It is true, and I have accepted him,’ said Mrs. Alastair, with 
a sad smile ; then suddenly she turned to Lady Murray with a 
quick, sobbing breath. 4 Oh, Ailsa, if I have done wrong, 
forgive me 1 It is so hard to know what to do ! And my posi- 
tion here — oh, I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but I have felt 
it hard. It will be a home for me and Sheila, and we both 
need it. We are not afraid to trust ourselves with Macdonald 
of Dalmore.’ 

4 My poor, dear Edith ! I am so glad. Don’t cry, my darling, 
nor tremble so. You have done perfectly right ; and oh, I 
hope you will be happy, dear, and find the happiness you hope 
for. It will be a great change for you, Edith ; and we will 
all need to bow before the Lady of Dalmore, will we not, 
Douglas ? ’ 

4 Lady of Dalmore,’ repeated Sir Douglas, as if the words had 
a charm for him. 4 Upon my word, Mrs. Alastair, you have 
done splendidly. Of course you have done right. No woman 
in her senses would refuse such a position, and I congratulate 
you with all my heart.’ Sir Douglas was perfectly sincere in 
what he said, and he looked at his sister-in-law with a new 
interest and a considerable increase of respect. The penniless 
widow of his brother and the lady-elect of Dalmore were two 
different beings. 4 We must go, Ailsa, if you wish to get this 
train,’ said Sir Douglas presently ; and with renewed con- 
gratulations they left her. 


2 


i8 


SHEILA. 


‘What will Ellen Macleod say, Douglas?’ asked Lady Ailsa, 
as they stepped into the carriage. 

‘ Show her black Macdonald blood,’ said Sir Douglas briefly. 
‘ Mrs. Alastair is quite a young woman, and will bring an heir 
to Dalmore, so Fergus Macleod will be put out.’ 

Lady Ailsa sighed ; she seemed to see trouble ahead. 

‘ Fergus Macleod will have his mother’s portion, Douglas,’ 
she said. ‘ He does not need Dalmore.’ 

‘ The mother’s portion cannot be much. I don’t think there 
is money among the Macdonalds, and if Ellen Macleod offends 
Dalmore just now, she and her boy may find themselves badly 
enough off.’ 

‘ She will be certain to do that,’ said Lady Ailsa, rather 
sadly. ‘ She was almost rude to Mrs. Alastair the last time 
they all dined at Murray shaugh. I should think Ellen 
Macleod could make a great deal of unhappiness if she chose.’ 

‘Well, well, let them fight their own battles,’ said Sir 
Douglas, dismissing the subject. ‘If Mrs. Alastair becomes 
Lady of Dalmore and Findowie, she can afford to snap her 
fingers at Ellen Macleod.’ 




CHAPTER H 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 



*0 haughty heart, hard girt about with the grim panoply of self/ 

ALMORE had a ten miles’ ride before him, but he 
was in no hurry to reach home. The reins lay 
loosely on the mare’s glossy neck, and she took her 
own time ascending the hill from Birnam. It was 
a warm, sultry summer night ; a haze of heat hung low in the 
valleys, and made mysterious mist-wreaths along the mountain- 
sides. Here and there the silver crest of a birch tree would 
peep out weirdly from the hillside, or the tall head of some 
giant beech or oak would stand out strangely from the sea of 
mist in the low grounds, but the Laird had no attention for 
these things. Any one meeting him could have told that he 
was deeply absorbed in thought, but what these thoughts were 
it would have been difficult to determine from the expression 
on his face. It was a strange, striking face ; rugged, powerful, 
suggestive of extraordinary strength of mind and will, but 
giving but little indication, if any, of the finer feelings which 
beautify human character. His heavy brows were knit, his 
mouth set in a grim, stern curve; but in his downcast eyes 
there shone a curious light, for Graham Macdonald was think- 
ing of the woman he loved. He had met her years ago at 
Murrayshaugh, where she was governess to the children of Sir 

19 




20 


SHEILA. 


Douglas, and had been drawn to her then, though she was but 
a girl, and he a man of middle age. But Alastair Murray was 
before him, and if Dalmore had ever dreamed any sweet 
dreams of Edith Chesney, her marriage with the younger 
Murray dispelled it. So he returned to his lonely dwelling on 
the slope of bleak Crom Creagh, and took up again the routine 
of his life, but somehow it seemed to possess less of interest 
or pleasure for him. A few months after Edith Chesney J s 
marriage, the minister of Meiklemore, the husband of Mac- 
donald’s only sister, Ellen died suddenly, and left her with 
one little boy of two years. It seemed the most natural 
thing in the world that Ellen Macdonald should return to 
Dalmore, and there she had dwelt in peace and security for 
three years. What castles she may have built for her own boy 
we shall learn hereafter. She had not the remotest idea that 
Lady Murray’s governess could even have possessed the slightest 
interest for her brother. He was not a marrying man, nor one 
of those who lavished attentions on ladies. He had rather the 
reputation of being a bore and a misanthrope ; therefore Ellen 
Macleod apprehended no evil. As for imagining that Mrs. 
Alastair, the Murrays’ poor relation, could be a lion in her 
path, she would have drawn herself up with indignation at the 
mere suggestion of such a thing. Ellen Macdonald was a 
proud, haughty, hard-natured woman. How she had stooped to 
marry the poor minister of Meiklemore, though he was a Macleod 
of Pitleoch, was a mystery not solvable by any who knew her. 

The Laird rode slowly, thinking of the woman he had 
left. Away in the far distance he could see the mist-crowned 
cap of Crom Creagh, in whose shadow stood the home she 
would one day brighten with her presence. It needed some- 
thing to brighten it ; it was a house, but no home, and never 
had been. If Macdonald was morose and unloveable, he had 
had no early training or sweeter influences to foster the 
better part of his nature. Grim Highland pride, fierce High- 
land temper, had been allowed to run rampant among the 
Macdonalds through every generation. A thought of Ellen 
came to him as he caught sight of Crom Creagh, and moment- 
arily he set himself straight in the saddle, and tightened 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


21 


his hand on the rein. The mare, sensitive to the slightest 
touch, set off at a brisk canter, and in fifteen minutes passed by 
the inn at Amulree. The mist was clearing away, and a 
glorious sunset appearing beyond the solemn shadows of Glen- 
quaich. A red light touched the waters of the loch into a 
sheet of living fire, and golden shafts lay athwart the surround- 
ing hills. High on a bit of tableland, half way up Crom 
Creagh, stood Dalmore, sheltered somewhat by a pine wood on 
either side, but standing out in front a grey, weather-beaten 
pile, its many turreted windows reflecting the glory of the sun- 
set sky. It was a bleak, exposed situation for a dwelling, more 
suggestive of a shooting lodge than the mansion pertaining to a 
great estate, but it was in keeping with the characteristics of 
the grim race whose heritage it was. They were not beloved 
in Glenquaich and Strathbraan, and Graham Macdonald was a 
hard landlord, exacting his dues to the uttermost farthing; a 
just man, but not generous, that was all that could be said of 
him. The front windows of Dalmore commanded a fine view : 
the little hamlet of Amulree, with its picturesque church and 
winding streams ; the beautiful valley of Glenquaich, with Loch 
Fraochie mirrored like a gem in its bosom ; and all around, 
chain upon chain of heather-clad hills sat in majestic and 
solemn beauty. They knew no change, whatever strife might 
fret the minds of men. 

The carriage-way to the mansion of Dalmore branched off 
the public road, crossed the Girron Burn by a rather unsteady- 
looking wooden bridge, propped up by divot and peat, led 
through the marshy low ground at the base of Crom Creagh, 
and finally wound up the steep slope of the hill to the house. 
A few straggling birches and firs grew on either side, but there 
was no attempt at ornamentation or effect. It was a bleak, 
bare, unpromising approach. And yet the place had its own 
wild beauty : the purple glow of heather bells, the mystery of 
light and shadows never seen save on Highland hills, and a 
perfect freedom and solitude, which seemed to bring it near to 
heaven. The Macdonalds loved their bleak heritage with a 
deep-rooted, if undemonstrative love, and they would not have 
exchanged it for any lowland castle or palace. 


22 


SHEILA. 


Graham Macdonald rode slowly up the carriage-way. Once 
more the mare was allowed to take her own sweet will. She 
even stopped to take a mouthful of herbage from the bank 
without being restrained by her master’s impatient hand. The 
house was built on a broad tableland directly under the steep 
ascent which led to the summit of the mountain. It was a 
commodious building of solid masonry, with long narrow win- 
dows, and a low wide doorway opening out on a sweep of 
gravel taken from the bed of the mountain streams. The 
stables and other offices were on the left, and to the right the 
garden, which, considering its height and exposure, seemed 
wonderfully productive. The harvest more than sufficed for 
the need of the simple household at Dalmore. 

The Laird dismounted at the stable door, and as he did so, 
a little lad dressed in the Highland garb, and becoming it well, 
came bounding with his hoop, and followed by a collie dog, 
from the front of the house. 

‘ May I get on Mora, Uncle Graham ? * he asked, in his clear, 
childish tones. ‘I have been watching for you. If I had 
seen you, I would have come to meet you on the road.’ 

‘ Too late, my boy,’ said the Laird, gently for him, and his 
eye softened as it dwelt on the boy’s sweet, open face. 1 Never 
mind, Fergus ; to-morrow you shall have a ride on Mora. Is 
your mother in the house ? ’ 

‘Yes, Uncle Graham. She is in the drawing-room, I think. 
I saw her at the window just now when I was playing. May I 
go with Lachlan Macrae to get Mora shod, and ride her home?* 

‘ Yes, yes ; off you go. See that Colin doesn’t chase the 
sheep. He’ll need to be shot, Fergus, if he doesn’t stop these 
tricks of his. I have had two complaints from the Fauld 
about him.* 

‘ He is a bad dog, Uncle Graham, and I try to teach him. 
I’ll whip him with your whip if he looks at a sheep to-day,’ 
said Fergus sorrowfully, but firmly, as his uncle turned away. 

Dalmore entered the house by the kitchen door, and then 
through a long stone passage to the front hall. Entering the 
gun-room, he took off his riding boots, and, washing his hands, 
proceeded as he was up to the drawing-room. His sister was 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


2 3 


there alone, and he had occasion for a private word with 
her. 

The interior of Dalmore was much more imposing and com- 
fortable than its outward aspect promised. The hall itself was 
not the least handsome and striking feature of the house. It 
was panelled in oak from basement to ceiling, and the latter 
was a specimen of the fine carved work of a past age. It had 
a fire-place which, in these days of crazes for the antique, 
would be accounted of priceless value. Deer and sheep skins 
lay here and there on the polished floor, and the walls were 
adorned with magnificent deer’s horns, stag’s head, and other 
trophies of the chase. A broad, shallow flight of steps led 
up to a porticoed doorway, which opened upon the staircase, 
also of rich dark polished oak, and uncarpeted. The effect, if 
somewhat gloomy and bare, had an attraction of its own. The 
drawing-room was on the first floor — a curious octagon-shaped 
room, built, indeed, in the tower of Dalmore. It was plainly 
furnished, and there was no attempt at decoration, and certainly 
none of those lighter touches of beauty, which flowers and 
dainty bits of colour can give to a gloomy room. It was 
occupied by a lady attired in a black gown of a hard material, 
and a huge black cap utterly out of keeping with the still 
youthful appearance it disfigured. Her long, white, character- 
istic hands were busy kitting a tartan sock for her boy ; and 
though she slightly turned her head at the opening of the door, 
she had no smile of greeting for her brother. A smile was, 
indeed, seldom seen on the face of Ellen Macleod. She was a 
handsome, striking-looking woman, with a grace and dignity of 
bearing which proclaimed her descent ; but there was nothing 
winning or womanly about her. One might almost wonder 
how she had been persuaded to become a wife. She was a 
woman v/ho looked always on the gloomy side of life. Young 
creatures shrank from her ; sometimes, God help him ! her boy’s 
warm heart was chilled by her coldness. She regarded any 
demonstration of affection as a pitiable weakness. She looked 
after the moral and physical well-being of her child in an 
exemplary manner, but withheld from him that motherly tender- 
ness which is the children’s heritage. A woman this with few 


24 


SHEILA . 


womanly attributes or impulses, and whose pride knew no 
limit. Of these two grim beings who faced each other in that 
room, the man was the preferable of the two. 

4 You have been riding ? * she said briefly, and without lifting 
her eyes from her work. She was indeed surprised to see her 
brother in the drawing-room. When he was indoors, his 
hours were chiefly spent in the gun-room or in the library, 
which was filled with books he never read. 

4 Yes ; I have been to Birnam and back since luncheon,’ he 
answered ; and, approaching the window where she sat, he 
stood directly opposite to her. She slightly elevated her eye- 
brows, but continued her work. 

4 Will you give me your attention for a few minutes, Ellen, 
if you please ? ’ 

4 Certainly, Macdonald,’ she answered, and, folding up her 
work methodically, laid it on the small inlaid table at her side, 
and lifted her calm eyes to his face. They were beautiful eyes — 
large, dark, and piercing — but they lacked that luminous light 
which a tender woman’s heart can give to less expressive orbs. 

Graham Macdonald was no coward, but he felt a trifle 
disconcerted under that calm, steady gaze. He knew perfectly 
well that she had not the remotest idea of the nature of the 
communication he was about to make, and it was impossible to 
expect that it would not give her a shock of an unpleasant kind. 

4 1 have something very particular to talk to you about, 
Ellen,’ he began. 4 It concerns myself directly, and more 
indirectly you and your boy.* 

4 Indeed ! ’ 

Ellen Macleod started slightly. She had felt herself very 
secure in Dalmore, and, in point of fact, regarded herself as 
the mother of its future laird. 

4 1 trust, Macdonald, that you have no fault to find with me 
or with Fergus ? ’ she said quietly. 4 1 have endeavoured to do 
my duty in the house, and the child is as good as one of his 
years can be expected.’ 

4 It is nothing of that kind, Ellen. How can I have any 
fault to find with you? And I love the boy, as you know,’ 
said Macdonald hastily. 4 1 only ask you to look back for a 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


25 


little. You will remember, when Macleod died, you came here 
of your own free will, without asking, and there was no promise 
given on either side/ 

‘ What are you talking about, Macdonald ? ’ asked Ellen 
Macleod, betrayed into more hastiness of speech than usual. 
‘ What do you mean ? ’ 

‘ What I say. I am only reminding you, that when you 
came back to Dalmore three years ago, there was no promise 
given that it should be to you or the boy a permanent home/ 

‘Then you wish me to leave my father’s house ? 7 said Ellen 
Macleod, with quivering lip. ‘Fergus and I have been too 
long a burden on you, perhaps; but we were unconscious 
offenders/ 

‘Don’t be a fool, Ellen,’ said Macdonald hastily. ‘It is im- 
possible you can misunderstand me. You have been no burden 
on me, nor have you given offence in any way, but I am going 
to marry, and it is impossible there can be two mistresses in 
Dalrnore/ 

4 Marry ! ’ The word fell short, sharp — almost like a gasp — 
from Ellen Macleod’s lips. In all her planning and dreaming, 
such a contingency as this had never presented itself to her 
mind. It was a moment before she recovered herself, for she 
had received a shock of no ordinary kind. 

‘ Excuse me, Macdonald, if I am lax in offering my congratu- 
lations , 7 she said at length, with a slight, chill smile. ‘The 
magnitude of my surprise is my excuse. Pray, who is the lady 
to whom you have offered your hand and heart ? 7 

Graham Macdonald did not like her tone, and his colour rose. 
There was not much love between the two, but the blame was 
wholly hers. She had done nothing all her life to conciliate or 
win her brother’s heart. Nay, she had taught him a mistrust 
and dislike of women which had soured him in his young man- 
hood, and made him a morose and melancholy man. 

‘ Spare me your sneers, Ellen, though they are not un- 
expected,’ he said quickly. ‘I do not admit your right to 
question me about my affairs. The fact that I am to marry 
might be sufficient. The lady who has done me the unspeakable 
honour to accept me in all my unworthiness is Edith Murray, 


26 


SHEILA. 


whom you may perhaps remember as governess at Murrays- 
haugh/ 

Ellen Macleod started as if she had been stung. Hot, bitter 
words rushed to her lips, but she restrained them, and even 
kept that cold smile steadily in her face. 

‘ Lady Ailsa’s English governess has indeed feathered her 
nest in Scotland/ she said slowly. ‘Not content with her 
position as widow of a Murray of Murrayshaugh, she has played 
and won Dalmore. She must be a clever woman, in spite of 
her baby face and innocent ways/ 

Ellen Macleod was very angry. Her passion was at fever 
heat, or she would not so far have forgotten herself. As her 
anger rose, however, her brother’s cooled, and he looked at her 
with a touch of compassion. 

‘My news has angered you, Ellen, and I forgive what you 
say about my future wife ; only, I beg of you, whatever you 
may think, in future to spare me the expression of your 
opinion. I suppose I have come to years of discretion, and 
may be permitted to please myself in this matter. I have told 
you in good time, for only this day did I receive my answer. 
You cannot accuse me of keeping you long in the dark it»gard- 
ing my plans/ 

‘ I thank you for that courtesy, Macdonald/ saici Ellen 
Macleod briefly. ‘ Unless the marriage is to taite place 
immediately, I shall have time to make my plans. As you say, 
there cannot be two mistresses in Dalmore/ 

‘ There need be no haste, Ellen/ said Macdonaid. ‘ Do not 
think I shall lose all interest in you and the boy. You will, at 
least, remain until the new mistress comes home t ’ 

‘ I think not, Macdonald ; it would scarcely be pleasant for 
her or for me/ was the cold response. 

‘The marriage will not take place immediately/ said Mac- 
donald, after a pause. ‘ I hope, before the time, that you and 
she may have better acquaintance of each other. You will 
accompany me at an early day, Ellen, to Birnam, will you 
not?’ 

Ellen Macleod’s colour rose, and her eyes flashed ominously. 

4 Although I have enjoyed the shelter of your roof since my 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


2 7 


husband’s death, Macdonald, I am not bound to humour your 
whims, or humiliate myself to please you,’ she said, with bitter 
scorn. ‘This woman you have chosen is not a fit wife for you, 
and I must decline to countenance the affair, or to receive 

her * 

So saying, she gathered her heavy skirts in her hand, and 
swept out of the room. 




CHAPTER III. 

LADY ailsa’s opinion. 

4 Oh, sweet is sympathy ; and woman’s heart 
Should be its fittest home/ 


HAVE just come over, Edith, my dear, to have a 
long chat with you about everything/ said Lady 
Ailsa Murray to her sister-in-law. 4 Douglas is at 
Perth to-day, and I shall wait with you until his 
train is due. How are you? Sheila is not with me, my love, 
because I knew that if I brought her, you would have eyes and 
ears for nobody else/ 

‘I have missed her very much, Ailsa/ said Mrs. Alastair. 
4 You, with your merry band, cannot understand the feelings of 
a mother who has only one ewe-lamb/ 

4 Oh, but I do I If you saw Sheila, Edith, among those six 
wild boys ! She is like a little angel. In spite of my merry 
band, I envy you your one ewe-lamb, because she is a girlie. 
What if we keep her? You will not need her badly at 
Dalmore ? * 

4 Perhaps more than here, Ailsa/ said Mrs. Alastair, with a 
sigh. 

4 Why that long face, child ? You are not regretting having 
given your promise to Dalmore ? P 

4 O no 1 9 The delicate colour rose swiftly to the young 

28 




LADY AILS A' S OPINION, 


29 


widow’s pale face. ‘If you only knew, if I could only tell you, 
how kind and good he is, Ailsa. I feel that I can never repay 
him for it all/ 

4 1 should not have thought Dalmore would make such a 
lover, Edith,’ said Lady Ailsa, with a laugh. 4 1 have always 
been rather afraid of him/ 

4 You do not know him/ said Mrs. Alastair, and turned her 
head a little away. 

4 1 suppose Ellen Macleod has never come ? 9 

‘No ; she will not receive me, Ailsa/ 

‘Abominable of her! but nobody could expect anything else 
from her. It passes my comprehension how any man ever had 
the courage to make her his wife. 1 daresay she wore poor 
Edgar Macleod out/ said Lady Ailsa calmly. ‘ She will leave 
Dalmore, I suppose ? ’ 

‘ O yes. There is a little lodge at Amulree — Shonnen, I 
think, is the name — which has been a kind of home for the 
ladies of the family. .It belongs to her, so she and her boy are 
to take up their abode in it/ 

4 Amulree ! ’ exclaimed Lady Ailsa, shaking her head. 4 Too 
near, my dear, far too near. I should like the breadth of the 
sea between you and Ellen Macleod/ 

4 You must not be too hard on her, Ailsa. Her hopes are all 
quenched. This must have been a blow to her ; and yet, and 
yet, if she were a true sister, she would not grudge her brother 
his happiness/ 

4 It is for the boy, I suppose/ said Lady Ailsa musingly. 
‘There is not much chance now of his inheriting Dalmore and 
Findowie. He is a fine little fellow. Have you ever seen him ? 9 

4 No ; but Macdonald speaks a great deal of him. He has a 
warm place in his uncle’s heart/ 

4 So Ellen Macleod has put up her Highland temper and her 
Highland pride/ said Lady Ailsa. ‘Never mind her, my dear; 
the only thing you can do is to ignore her.’ 

4 1 wrote to her, Ailsa, but she returned me my letter un- 
opened/ said Mrs. Alastair, w r ith flushing face. 

‘Insulting woman! and in spite of all that, she deigns to 
remain at Dalmore f 


30 


SHEILA, 


4 I did not tell Macdonald of it, Ailsa, as I am afraid — he is 
so sensitive where I am concerned — that he would have sent 
her away/ 

‘Well, well, don’t let us speak about her any more. When 
is the marriage likely to take place ? ’ 

‘ The date is fixed/ returned Mrs. Alastair shyly ; ‘ the 
twenty-first of September.’ 

‘ And this is the ninth of August, child. There is no time 
to prepare. Of course you know the wedding will take place 
at Murrayshaugh ? ’ 

‘ We talked of being married in Edinburgh, Ailsa. This is 
such a prying, gossiping place.* 

4 Let them pry and gossip/ laughed Lady Ailsa. ‘ It can be 
as quiet as you like, but it shall be at Murrayshaugh and 
nowhere else. You can tell Macdonald that, with my kind 
compliments. Since you are going to cast off the Murrays, it 
must be done gracefully ; and Ellen Macleod shall see that 
she stands alone in her senseless disapproval of the wisest step 
her brother ever took in his life.’ 

4 Cast off the Murrays 1 9 repeated Mrs. Alastair, and her tears 
rose. 4 If I ever forget what you have been to me, Ailsa, since 
the first day I entered Murrayshaugh, a nameless dependent, 
may I suffer for it ! ’ 

4 Hush, my darling ! we have made you suffer too. My heart 
has been sore against my husband often on your account. 
Many times has he made the wound I could never heal. It is 
an unspeakable source of gratitude to me that at last you will 
be able to hold your own against us with all our pride. This 
marriage is a perfect joy to me, Edith, and all the Ellen 
Macleods in the world won’t damp it.’ 

Both were agitated, and there were traces of it in their looks 
and manner, when the servant announced Mr. Macdonald. 

Lady Ailsa sprang up, brushed away her tears, and was 
ready to meet the Laird with a smile. As he entered the 
room she could not but be struck by his noble bearing, and 
note the exquisite softening which a woman’s sweet influence 
had given to his hard face. She saw the light in his eyes as 
they dwelt on Edith’s face, and her heart was content, for she 


LADY AILS A' S OPINION. 


3 * 


knew that it was the love of a life her gentle sister-in-law had 
won — a love which would shield and cherish her from the 
blasts of life. Love had indeed wrought a marvellous change 
in Macdonald of Dalmore. 

4 What little bird whispered to you that Edith and I were 
talking about you?’ laughed Lady Ailsa in her happy way. 
4 I do not suppose that you will care for anything so conven- 
tional as congratulations. Nevertheless, I do congratulate you, 
and I have known Edith much longer than you. You have 
won a prize, sir, which I fear we Murrays have not sufficiently 
appreciated.’ 

She spoke lightly, but with an undercurrent of earnestness 
which Graham Macdonald deeply felt. 

4 I thank you, Lady Ailsa. I pray I may be worthy of it,’ 
he said, with a courtesy and grace which became him well. 

‘I have no fear for your happiness. Good-bye, Edith, 
darling. She will tell you what we have been talking about. 
No, I will not stay;’ and almost before they could detain her, 
the w r arm-hearted lady of Murrayshaugh had flitted out of the 
room. 

4 Is Farquhar in your kitchen, Anne ? ’ she asked Mrs. 
Alastair’s maid, as she met her in the stair. 

4 No, my lady ; he has gone over to the hotel to put up the 
horses.’ 

4 Ah, just run over and tell him to bring back the carriage, 
as I am going farther on. I shall w r ait in the dining-room till 
he comes,’ said Lady Ailsa, who had conceived a sudden plan. 
She w T as impulsive by nature, but the promptings of her heart 
were always in the right direction. 

4 Have we time, Farquhar, to drive to Dalmore and be back 
in time for Sir Douglas’s train ? ’ 

4 Dalmore, my lady ? 9 asked the servant in surprise. 

4 Dalmore, above Amulree — you know it? ’ 

4 O yes, my lady, I know it ; it is ten miles from here. 
No, there is not time ; it will take ns three hours at least.’ 

4 Ah, then, Lachlan can walk back to Murrayshaugh, and 
bring a dogcart for Sir Douglas ; Anne will tell him. Drive 
me up to Dalmore.* 


3 2 


SHEILA . 


There was nothing for Farqnhar but to obey, though he felt 
himself aggrieved by this sudden and unexpected order. It 
was a long, toilsome road to Dalmore, and a cold, wet drizzle 
was beginning to blow in the easterly wind. Mr. Farqnhar’ s 
imperturbable countenance wore a shade of anxious gloom as 
he turned his horses’ heads up the hilly ascent. 

Lady Ailsa contemplated an errand of mercy. She wished 
to reason with, and, if possible, to conciliate Ellen Macleod, 
whom she had known since her girlhood, though she had not 
seen much of her for some years. But she knew the nature of 
Mrs. Alastair, and that the thought that Ellen Macleod regarded 
her with aversion and anger would eat the happiness out of 
her heart. 

Farquhar was in no very good mood when he got his horses 
up the steep carriage-way to Dalmore. He was an old and 
privileged servant, and sometimes spoke his mind with curious 
candour. 

‘ Just look at the poor brutes, my lady,’ he said, pointing to 
their foam-flaked flanks. ‘That road’s enough to kill them. 
How folks can live in a wilderness like this, and expect 
other people’s horseflesh to pull up their mountains, I don’t 
know.* 

‘ You make idols of the horses, Farquhar,’ said Lady Ailsa 
good-naturedly. ‘Take them into the stables and feed 
them well. I shall stay tea with Mrs. Macleod while I am 
here.’ 

Ellen Macleod had seen the carriage mounting the hill, and 
recognised the grey horses, but scarcely expected to see Lady 
Ailsa alone. She had made up her mind that ‘that woman,’ 
as she termed Mrs. Alastair, had come to assert her right to be 
received at Dalmore. Dear me ! how uncharitable one woman 
can be to another when jealousy and anger are allowed to gain 
the mastery. Lady Ailsa perfectly divined her thoughts, and 
smiled as she shook hands with her. 

‘No, I have not brought poor Mrs. Alastair to take you 
by storm, Ellen,’ she said, with that sweet daring which character- 
ized her at times. ‘ I am not such an arch-plotter. Will you 
give me a cup of tea, and let me rest a little with you while 


LADY AILSA 1 S OPINION. 


33 


Fa'rquhar attends to his precious horses? lie is much more con- 
cerned about their well-being than his mistress’s convenience/ 

It was impossible not to feel the charm of that bright 
presence, and Ellen Macleod’s grim face relaxed. 

6 1 am very glad to see you, Lady Ailsa. Few women folk 
visit me here,’ she said graciously, as she laid her hand on the 
bell -rope. 

‘Your own fault, Ellen Macleod. People won’t visit without 
invitations,’ said Lady Ailsa candidly. ‘ Why do you mew 
yourself up in this dull place ; and oh, why do you wear that 
hideous thing on your head? It quite disfigures you. Have 
you ever noticed what a dainty thing Mrs. Alastair wears’ — 

Lady Ailsa stopped abruptly. She had made a mistake, as 
was evidenced by the slow, bitter smile which curled Ellen 
Macleod’s lip. 

‘ I have not a like desire with Mrs. Alastair to make myself 
attractive in the eyes of men,’ she said quietly. 

‘ What horrid things you say, Ellen Macleod ! I declare you 
are not one bit better than you used to be as a girl. Was 
there no grace in the manse of Meiklemore?’ 

Ellen Macleod held her tongue, and stirred up the newly- 
lighted fire to a brighter blaze. 

‘ Do sit down, Ellen, and let us talk,’ said Lady Ailsa, feeling 
that she was making very little headway. ‘I am an old friend; 
you can trust me, and I will be true. I have come to-day to 
plead Mrs. A last air’s cause.’ 

Ellen Macleod sat down ; a red spot burned on her cheek, 
and her lips compressed themselves together. 

‘ I would rather not speak of Mrs. Alastair, Ailsa, if you 
please.’ 

‘ But, Ellen, you must speak of her. If you go on brooding 
over this thing it will eat your heart out. Let us turn it inside 
out, and see the good as well as the ill in it. Confess, 
now, that it has made a wonderful improvement in your 
brother.’ 

‘ I have not noticed it. lie has been little at home since this 
transpired. There are no fools like old ones, Lady Ailsa, and a 
middle-aged lover is generally a sorry spectacle. I am sorry 


34 


SHEILA. 


to see Macdonald making himself a laughing-stock, 1 was the 
sour reply. 

‘ How hard you are upon him/ said Lady Ailsa gently. 

4 Love makes us all a little foolish. I saw Macdonald to-day at 
Mrs. Alastair’s, and I never admired him before, Ellen. In 
fact, I have been rather sorry for Edith ; you Macdonalds are 
rather a fearsome race, you know/ 

‘Not fearsome enough to frighten her? said Ellen Macleod, 
with grim irony ; which Lady Ailsa passed over, so eager was 
she to make peace in Dalmore. 

She leaned forward in her chair, with her fair white hands 
clasped on her knees, and fixed her soft blue eyes earnestly on 
the dark, forbidding face opposite. 

4 Ellen, all you can do now will not put Macdonald past his 
purpose. Would it not be better to accept the inevitable 
gracefully, and do what you can to further his happiness? I 
am certain this marriage will be for his happiness. Edith is 
a dear woman. I am sure you will learn to love her. Don’t 
be the only shadow on the happiness of Dalmore/ 

Ellen Macleod never spoke, nor did her countenance relax in 
the least. She fancied herself deeply injured, and her anger 
burned causelessly against the inoffensive woman who had 
supplanted her. She was a proud, hard, jealous-minded woman, 
and Lady Ailsa’s gentle pleading fell with very little effect on 
her ears. 

‘Macdonald is his own enemy, Lady Ailsa. He has not 
calculated what expense and extravagance this step will lead 
him into. He will find a wife and family a very different 
matter to provide for from what it is at present. I have saved 
money for him, and Heaven knows — what with grumbling, ill- 
conditioned tenants, who shirk their rent paying, and these 
hard times — there is need for retrenchment somewhere. The 
revenues of Dalmore and Findowie combined would not suffice 
to keep up an extravagant establishment/ 

‘Mrs Alastair will be more likely to diminish than increase 
the household expenditure. Her way of life since her marriage 
— indeed, all her life — has taught her strict economy/ said Lady 
Ailsa, with a slight sigh, for her heart was heavier than it had 


LADY AILS A ’S OPINION. 


35 


been when she started on her mission. ‘ I assure you, you 
are imagining troubles and ills which will never come. Do be 
persuaded to make the best of this, Ellen. Go down some day 
and see Mrs. Alastair. Were I you, my pride would make 
me do it.* 

Ellen Macleod’s face grew yet more grim with the sternness 
of a settled purpose. 

‘ I have passed my word. I do not approve of this foolish 
marriage ; and I cannot think her a woman of principle or 
feeling. I will not humble myself to her. If she becomes 
Lady of Dalmore she can afford to despise me, and will probably; 
so you must leave us alone, Lady Ailsa.’ 

At that moment the door was thrown open, and little Fergus, 
his fair face flushed with out-door exercise, and his tangled 
yellow hair tossing on his open brow, came bounding into the 
room, with a wet and muddy collie at his heels. 

‘ Oh, mamma, there is a carriage in the yard ! ’ he cried, 
but stopped short at the sight of the strange lady at the hearth. 

Lady Ailsa’s motherly heart warmed to the bright- faced lad, 
and she stretched out her hands to him with a smile. But the 
lad drew back with a shyness quite unusual with him, and kept 
close by his mother’s side. Lady Ailsa saw the mother’s bosom 
heave as her full eye fell on the childish figure at her side. 

‘ Mamma,’ said Fergus, in a whisper perfectly audible through 
the whole room, ‘is that the lady who is to put us out of 
Dalmore ? ’ 

Ellen Macleod’s colour rose. 

‘That is Lady Ailsa Murray, Fergus. Make your bow to 
her, and then take Colin downstairs. Don’t you see he is fitter 
for the stable than the drawing-room ? How often have I told 
you not to bring the dogs into the house ? ’ 

‘ Uncle Graham said I might have Colin in, mamma,’ said the 
boy; and, with a graceful salutation to Lady Ailsa, he left the 
room. 

‘ I must apologise for Fergus’s hasty speech, Ailsa,’ said Ellen 
Macleod, as she rose to pour out the tea. ‘ He is only a child, 
and has not yet learned the wisdom of the world.’ 

‘It is hardly fair to poison his mind, Ellen,’ said Lady Ailsa, 


36 


SHEILA. 


in gentle rebuke. ‘You might have given Edith a chance, at 
least, to win his unprejudiced love.* 

4 You don’t understand,’ said Ellen Macleod fiercely, for her 
passion rose, and her eye grew dark with the swelling tumult 
within. 4 That is where it stings. I have watched the boy 
with all a mother’s pride, and loved him for his manliness and 
noble bearing. I thought he w r as giving fair promise of fitness 
for the position I thought would be surely his. And now I 
must crush every manly attribute, and make him fit to serve 
others; for, God help him! he has now no heritage. By the 
labour of his hands and the sweat of his brow, Fergus Macleod 
must earn his bread.* 




CHAPTER IV. 

WELCOME HOME. 

0 child, thy life should be 
Ev’n as thy open brow, 

Careless and lovely. 

Ho WITT, 


HE cliill October rain beat upon the window panes, 
against which a small child face was pressed, 
peering out wistfully into the gathering night. It 
was little Sheila Murray, all alone in the drawing- 
room, watching for her mother’s home-coming to Dalmore. 
She had been parted from her for three weeks, and though the 
time had been spent happily enough among her cousins at 
Murrayshaugh, and though gentle Aunt Ailsa had acted a 
mother’s part towards her, what that parting had been to the 
child was only known to herself. She was a strange, quiet, 
clinging little mortal, thoughtful beyond her years, not given 
much to the boisterous play of other children, though she was 
a perfect child in all her ways. There was something touch- 
ing and pathetic in her attitude and expression as she sat 
curled up on the window-seat, looking out on the dreary land- 
scape, though she could not see the road for the blinding mist 
of rain. She wore a white dress; and Aunt Ailsa, out of 
compliment to the Laird of Dalmore, had bidden Anne, who 
was retained as nurse at Dalmore, tie a sash of the Macdonald 

87 




38 


SHEILA. 


tartan about her waist. The child, quick to notice the new 
ribbon, had asked its meaning, and Anne had answered back 
that it was her new papa’s colours, which she must always 
wear now. 

4 Her new papa’s colours ! ’ The child had pondered these 
words in her small mind for hours, without being able to 
understand their meaning. 

Poor little Sheila! Dalmore, that magic word which had 
been so often on her lips of late, had grievously disappointed her 
when she alighted from the carriage at its entrance that dreary 
afternoon. It had chilled her young heart ; and when she was 
dressed and sent into the big, gloomy drawing-room to await 
her mother and her ‘new papa’s’ home-coming, a great sense 
of desolation had come upon her, and, curling herself up in the 
deerskin by the fire, she cried herself to sleep. When she 
awoke, the shadows were gathering in the long room, the wood 
fire was smouldering on the hearth, and Anne, gossiping with 
her new master’s domestics, had forgotten all about her little 
charge. The house was very silent. Not a sound was to 
be heard but the soughing wind among the pines, and the 
monotonous plashing of the rain upon the panes. The carriage 
was very late, but, before it arrived, an uninvited guest came up 
the brae to the house, and, with all the freedom of familiarity, 
marched up to the drawing-room, muddy boots and all. At 
the opening of the door, Sheila slipped from her high perch on 
the window-seat, and came expectantly across the floor. But 
instead of her mother it was only a small boy who entered, 
attired in a damp kilt, and with the feathers in his bonnet 
dripping in his hand. He shut the door, and advanced into the 
room with a peculiar expression on his face. The two children 
stood on the hearth-rug, surveying each other with delightful 
deliberation for a few minutes. Then Sheila spoke, with a 
curious mixture of shyness and dignity — 

‘ Who are you, little boy ? ’ 

‘ Fergus Macleod,’ was the prompt reply. ‘ Who are 
you ? ’ 

4 Sheila Murray. My mamma and me have come to live 
here now with Mr. Macdonald,’ said Sheila proudly, and 


WELCOME HOME. 


39 


beginning to smooth the ribbon of her sash with her dainty 
little hand. 4 Do you know Mr. Macdonald, little boy — my 
papa ? ’ 

‘ He is my Uncle Graham,’ said Fergus, drawing himself up. 
4 My mother and I lived here before you came.’ 

4 And where do you live now ? ’ 

4 At Shonnen,’ said the boy, with a break in his voice which 
made Sheila open her eyes very wide indeed. 

4 Don’t cry, little boy/ she said, in a gentle, patronizing, 
reassuring tone, such as a mother might employ towards her 
child. 4 Would you like better to live in this house?’ 

4 Yes; Shonnen is a little house, and it is on the roadside,’ 
said Fergus contemptuously. 4 1 can’t live in it/ 

4 Well, I’m sure my mamma and my new papa will let you 
live here if you ask them. It is such a big house — rooms, and 
rooms, and rooms, nearly as many as Aunt Ailsa’s. Then you 
and I could play cattie and doggie. Do you know cattie and 
doggie, little boy ? * 

4 No ; I never play. I’m a great deal too old for that. I am 
nine,’ said the lad. 4 Are you five yet ? ’ 

4 O yes ; next Sunday is my birthday, and I am six. See, 
my sash is the same colour as your kilt. Don’t touch it, little 
boy ; your hands are all wet/ 

4 I’m not touching it, and my hands are quite dry/ said 
Fergus quickly. 4 Don’t call me a boy. I can ride Uncle 
Graham’s Mora — a big, wild horse — and I have had a pony 
since I was six. Did you ever see a pony ? ’ 

4 Yes ; I ride on Alastair Murray’s pony when I am at Aunt 
Ailsa’s. Do you know Aunt Ailsa, Fergus? I love her next to 
mamma/ 

4 No, I don’t know your Aunt Ailsa/ said Fergus quickly. 

In looking round the familiar room it had suddenly come 
upon the boy that he had no right in Dalmore. Young though 
he was, he had learned to love the place with a love which was 
to sadden youth and early manhood with a dark cloud. Very 
early had the cross fallen on the shoulders of Fergus Macleod. 

4 You are a rude little boy, Fergus Macleod/ said Sheila, 
in her quiet, quaint way. 4 Aunt Ailsa makes her boys so 


40 


SHEILA. 


polite to ladies. But tlien you have no Aunt Ailsa* Have 
you come over to see mamma and me lo-day ? ’ 

‘ No ; I came because there~ls no garden or stable, or — or 
anything, at Shonnen,’ said the boy, with a strange, weary 
look. ‘ Will your mamma be angry if she sees me here ? ’ 

‘ My mamma is never angry. She will let you live here, I 
am quite sure,’ said Sheila promptly. ‘And I’ll ask my new 
papa. He said he would buy me a pony, and you can ride on 
it, Fergus, when I am not on it.’ 

‘ My mother said you would never let us into Dalmore 
again, and so I came up to see,’ said Fergus. 

‘Just sit down, and wait till my mamma comes,’ said Sheila 
reassuringly; and, taking the boy’s bonnet from his hand, she 
led him over to the fire. It was delightful to see her; the 
exquisite blending of sympathy and protection and childlike 
tenderness in her whole demeanour, was unlike a child. So 
these two, whose way of life was to lead them together into 
many strange paths, met, and drew to each other, without any 
prevision of that eventful future in store. 

Presently the servant came in to replenish the fire, and, after 
one look at the children, sitting contentedly side by side, went 
out with a tear in her eye. 

‘I wish Leddy Macleod saw the picture in the drawing- 
room,’ she said to her mates. ‘It wad serve her for meat an’ 
drink for a week, an’ more. I dout she’ll no divide Shonnen 
an’ Dalmore.’ 

Almost as she made her speech, the carriage with the Laird 
and his wife swept up to the door, and in a few moments 
Edith Murray crossed the threshold of her new home, leaning 
on her husband’s arm. Sheila was not in the hall, but through 
the open doors, and down the staircase, there came floating the 
merry music of children’s voices, and the clatter of hurrying 
feet. 

‘ Did any of her cousins come up with Miss Sheila, Anne ? ’ 
she asked, with a smile, turning to the familiar face of her own 
maid. 

‘ No, ma’am,’ said Anne, smiling too ; for she was delighted 
to see her mistress looking so well and happy. 


WELCOME HOME. 


4i 


Then the Lnird and his wife went upstairs together, and, the 
drawing-room door being open, they had a full view of the firelit 
interior, where a little elf in white was running laughing round 
the room, pursued by Fergus, laughing all his might too. 
Cattie and doggie had begun ! 

‘ Who is that, Graham ? ’ she whispered. 

‘ Ellen’s boy, my dear. The bairns will make peace in 
Dalmore,’ he said significantly. ‘Hulloa! is not this a pretty 
din to kick up in a drawing-room, eh ? ’ 

The children came to a dead stop; then Sheila, with a shriek 
of delight, sprang into her mother’s arms; but, in spite of his 
uncle’s reassuring smile, the boy hung back, remembering his 
mother’s words. Ay, Ellen Macleod had poisoned the young 
heart against Dalmore, and could she have seen the picture in 
the drawing-room that night, her ire would have been great 
indeed. 

‘This is Fergus, mamma; such a nice little boy,’ said Sheila, 
presently slipping from her mother’s arms. ‘He is afraid of 
you, mamma — just think ! ’ 

‘Fergus will not be afraid of me, darling, after to-night,* 
said Edith Macdonald ; and at sound of the sweet voice the 
boy’s eyes were raised almost wonderingly to the face of the 
speaker. She put her two soft, kind hands on his shoulders, 
and, bending down, kissed him straight on the brow above his 
earnest eyes. 

‘ I am Aunt Edith, dear. Do you think you will love me 
a little ? I intend to love you a great deal.* 

‘ Oh, Uncle Graham ! ’ cried the lad, breaking from her, and 
holding fast by his -uncle’s hand, for there was a perfect con- 
fidence between them ; ‘ mother said they would hate me, and 
put me out of Dalmore.’ 

‘And you have come to see for yourself, Fergus?’ said his 
uncle. ‘That was right. Learn early to form and act on 
your own opinion. It will make you independent. Well, 
Ediih, in spite of the dreary look of the place outside, this 
looks comfortable enough, eh?’ he asked, turning to his 
wife. 

‘Yes; this is a lovely old room, Graham, and the children 

4 


42 


SHEILA. 


make it home-like. If only the boy’s mother had stayed to 
welcome me,’ she said in a low voice. 

‘ She’ll never do that, so there’s no use making yourself 
miserable about it,’ said Macdonald, and his mouth took a 
stern curve. ‘ Well, Fergus, what’s been happening in Amulree 
and the Fauld while I have been away?’ 

‘Nothing much, Uncle Graham. I fought Angus M‘Bean 
in the school on Tuesday, and the master thrashed me.’ 

‘What school?’ 

‘ Peter Crerar’s. I go there now.’ 

Macdonald bit his lip, and his wife saw his eyes flash. 

‘Upon my word, Ellen’s folly transcends everything!’ he 
muttered. ‘ But why in the world can’t you go on as usual 
with your lessons at the manse?’ 

The boy’s face flushed, and he did not speak. 

‘Did your mother give you any reason, Fergus?’ asked his 
uncle quickly, noticing his hesitation. 

‘ She said that as 1 would need to make my own living, the 
sooner I made friends among poor boys the better,’ said the 
boy, in a slow and pained voice, for he felt it acutely. He was 
old beyond his years. The constant companionship of grown- 
up people had given his childish thoughts the maturity of 
manhood. Though he was compelled to obey his mother, he 
had felt her injustice and foolish resentment. It was scarcely 
a child’s action to come to Dalmore to see for himself how 
matters stood. 

‘ Angus M‘Bean is the factor’s son, Edith,’ said Macdonald, 
looking towards his wife. ‘ Pray, what were ye fighting about? ’ 

‘ He laughed at my mother, Uncle Graham, and asked how 
we liked Shonnen,’ said Fergus, with heaving bosom, * and I 
just knocked him down straight on the floor in the school. 
The master thrashed me, and when we got out I fought Angus 
on the road.’ 

‘You bloodthirsty young rascal!’ laughed Macdonald; but 
his wife saw that he was pleased with the spirit of the boy. 
‘ And who beat ? ’ 

‘ It was a drawn battle,’ said Fergus proudly. 1 But I’ll 
fight him when I’m bigger. He’s a far bigger boy than me, 


WELCOME HOME. 


43 

and stronger, too. But he’s a coward, Uncle Graham. He 
hits little boys and girls.’ 

It would be impossible to set down the emphasis which 
Fergus laid on the last. word. 

4 Then he’s a horrid boy, and I hate him ! ’ cried Sheila 
shrilly. ‘I like you, Fergus, and you can ride on my pony 
if you like.* 

4 But he has his own pony. Donald is in the stable, isn’t 
he, Fergus ? ’ 

4 Yes, Uncle Graham ; but mother says I’m not to go on 
him, nor come to Dalmore any more,’ cried Fergus, in a great 
burst of sorrow ; and, ashamed of his tears, he turned round 
and ran out of the room. 

None attempted to detain him. They saw that the childish 
heart was full, and that it would have its vent. Edith Mac- 
donald turned away to her dressing-room with a shadow in 
her eyes and on her heart. 

4 What a woman, Graham!’ she said, when she was able to 
speak. 4 Although she is his mother, she is not fit to have the 
care of that fine, sensitive-souled boy. She’ll break his heart.’ 

4 I’m not done with Ellen yet,’ said Macdonald grimly. 
4 She has forgotten that her husband left me guardian of the 
boy, and she can’t do what she pleases with his education and 
upbringing. Peter Crerar’s school, indeed ! The woman’s a 
perfect fool/ 

4 It must have been a great blow to her, when she acted so,’ 
said Edith, with a sigh. * I wonder if we have acted right, 
Graham ? ’ 

‘Now, Edith, after all my warnings, you are just going to 
fret about this. What you have to do is to make yourself 
happy and at home in Dalmore. It is yours now. I’ll deal 
with Ellen. As for the boy, if he turns out as he promises, 
he’ll not be a sufferer. I like him, and I’ll do my duty by 
him. But Ellen must be brought to her senses first, or she’ll 
ruin him.* 

Meanwhile, Fergus, with wet eyes, and sore, sore heart, was 
running all his might down the avenue, away from Dalmore. 

When he reached the bridge spanning the Girron Burn, he 


44 


SHEILA . 


stood on it a little while with the rain beating down upon him, 
watching the foaming torrent, whose current carried all before 
it. Three days’ rain had brought the burn down in flood. 
There was something soothing to the boy in the swift rush of 
that wild tide, and before he had watched it for many minutes 
he began to wonder how many days it would be before he 
could fish the burn. There was a long yellow line in the far 
west, and the lowering clouds w r ere beginning to lighten, and 
the wet caps of mist to roll from the mountain tops. The 
storm was nearly over, and by Saturday, he calculated, the 
burn might be in order. Having arrived at this conclusion, 
he walked soberly over to the road, and, passing by the school 
and the inn, turned off to his new home. 

It was a bare, barren-looking house, not much bigger than 
a cottage, though it was called Shonnen Lodge. It stood by 
the roadside, and had no garden, but only a few stunted birch 
trees at either side, and the gaunt, bare slope of Craig Hulich 
rising abruptly behind it. It was a bitter change indeed from 
Dalmore, and there is no doubt that both mother and son felt 
it keenly. Ellen Macleod had missed the boy from the house, 
and, watching by the upper front windows, she saw him cross 
the Girron Burn, and guessed where he had been. 

She opened the door to him herself, and bade him come in, 
in a sharp, angry voice. 

4 You’ve been at Dalmore, Fergus ? ’ 

4 Yes, mother,’ he answered, in a low voice, 

4 And are you satisfied now?’ she asked snappishly. 4 1 saw 
them ride by in their fine carriage. You got a sorry welcome, 
I expect, that you have come back so soon ? * 

4 Mother, I don’t think they are what you said,’ he ventured 
to say, in a low voice. 4 Aunt Edith is very kind.’ 

‘Aunt Editli, indeed! Have you got that length already?’ 
she asked sourly. 4 Do you know you deliberately disobeyed 
me this afternoon, Fergus?’ 

4 1 am sorry, mother. I forgot.’ 

4 That is no excuse. If you forget what I say again, Fergus, 
I must punish you very severely. I will not do it to-day, as 
I suppose you were curious to see them,’ she said contemptu- 


WELCOME HOME. 


45 


ously. ‘ Hear me again. You are not to go to Dalmore. You 
have no right in it. That woman and her child have taken it 
from you. She is not your aunt. I forbid you to call her 
aunt.’ 

The boy never spoke, but crouched down by the fire like 
a dog who has been beaten for a fault he cannot understand. 
He thought of the place he had left not long ago — of the 
happy, laughing child; of the sweet-faced, kind- voiced mother; 
and of his uncle, whom, with all his sternness, he dearly loved. 
No doubt the tie which binds mother and child is strong, but 
can it not be weakened — nay, almost severed — by coldness and 
neglect ? Ellen Macleod had done very little to win the boy’s 
love, and he had a deep, sensitive, yearning heart. She did 
not know what a harvest of anguish she was heaping up for 
herself — ay, and for him ;. for there came a day when the 
conflict betwixt choice and duty became a matter of awful 
moment for Fergus Macleod. 




CHAPTER V. 

THE KIRK OF AMULREE. 

But on that gentle heart a shadow fell 
And darkly lay, stealing the sunlight sweet 
From out her life. 


HE next day was the Sabbath. It dawned fair and 
bright for October, with a clear, soft sky overhead, 
and a sprinkling of hoar-frost scattered like manna 
on the ground. The roads even were made crisp 
and firm by the first frost of the season, and walking was very 
pleasant. The Laird’s folk went on foot to the church in 
Amulree, — Macdonald and his fair wife before, and Anne, with 
Sheila, coming up behind. There was a goodly gathering in 
the kirk, for the fine season had tempted the shooting tenants 
to linger longer than usual, and all the country folk turned 
out in expectation of seeing the new lady of Dal more. 

They could" not think enough of it when they saw her come 
walking up the road so humbly and unostentatiously, like 
themselves, without a bit of display or grandeur to make her 
conspicuous. The kirk stood on a piece of rising ground over- 
looking the river, as it ran swiftly and silently from its source 
in the loch. It was a fine situation, and the church itself was 
a picturesque white-washed building, of long, narrow construc- 
tion, and having a curious little belfry, containing a tinkling, 

46 




THE KIRK OF AMULREE. 


47 


old-fashioned bell. The grassy enclosure surrounding the 
church was used as a burying-ground, as was evidenced by the 
uneven mounds scattered here and there, though there were 
but few headstones to be seen. 

The Laird’s pew was on the left hand of the pulpit, and after 
entering, Mrs. Macdonald knelt for a moment in silent prayer — 
an action so unusual in the kirk of Amulree, that one looked 
to the other, and there were even more than one solemn head- 
shaking. It was rather like a Papist, they thought, but hoped 
the Laird had not been drawn into an unholy marriage. 

In these few brief seconds Edith Macdonald had time to 
breathe a passionate prayer for a blessing on her new life and 
home. The Laird looked proud and happy enough, however. 
There was no doubt as to his opinion about the step he had 
taken ; and as for Sheila, she sat very bolt upright, with her 
big brown eyes wandering over the whole interior of the kirk. 
It was the very funniest church she had ever been in in all 
her life. 

The Laird’s seat was cushioned, and the boards were laid 
pretty evenly on the floor, but along the passages — and, indeed, 
in all the other pews — there was no attempt at systematic 
flooring ; and in many places, notably under the long com- 
munion table, which ran from end to end of the church, the 
sandy soil was quite uncovered. It was a cold, uninviting 
place altogether, very different from the little Episcopalian 
chapel in Dunkeld, which Edith had regularly attended. 

Then the pulpit and the precentor’s box below were curious 
narrow contrivances, very deep and narrow, in which the 
preacher’s eloquence was kept within due limits. But the 
kirk of Amulree had always been noted for the solidity of its 
pulpit ministrations, and had no connection with such frivolities 
as loud shouting of the Word, and senseless throwing about of 
the arms to enforce its doctrine. A fine drowsy atmosphere 
usually pervaded the kirk during the three-quarters of an hour 
the sermon lasted. 

Just as the bell began to ring, the Laird opened the door 
of the pew, and in walked Colin, quite doucely, and curled 
himself up on the floor. He had been over at Shonnen, and 


48 


SHEILA. 


had come to church, as usual, at Fergus Macleod’s heels. After 
Colin lay down, the Laird kept Lis eye on the door, wonder- 
ing how Ellen would conduct herself, and whether she would 
have the- presumption to come down and sit in the pew beside 
the woman against whom she cherished such causeless anger. 

She came in at length, with her thick crape veil hanging 
down over her face, and took a seat in a pew near the door, 
out of sight of the folk from Dal more. Sheila’s small stature 
prevented her seeing where Fergus went, but she was sorry 
he did not come to sit by her. Her attention, however, was 
presently diverted by the entrance of an individual in a sweep- 
ing black cloak, who came down the aisle with an air of dignity 
very impressive to behold. It was not the minister, however, 
but Ewan M‘Fadyen, the precentor, quite as important and 
necessary an official as the minister — perhaps, in his own 
estimation, more so. 

He stepped into his box, closed the door, and blew his nose 
with an astounding report, Sheila watching him with the most 
open-eyed wonder all the while. Her mother could not but 
smile, indeed, at the expression on her face. The Laird 
smiled too, when Ewan, without the least shame or attempt to 
hide his object, stood up and turned towards the Dalmore pew. 
Now Ewan had a peculiar cast in his eye, which gave his face 
a somewhat evil expression, and when he was looking intently 
at anything, he screwed his ‘skelly* eye up until it contorted 
the side of his face and made his visage a sight to see. In this 
singular but characteristic manner Ewan stared at the Laird’s 
wife for a full second or so, and then, slowly nodding his head, 
sat down and took a pinch of snuff, indicative of his absolute 
approval. Edith hastily drew down her veil, not only to hide 
her rising colour, but the smile which was like to become a 
laugh. Then the minister gave out the psalm, and Ewan 
stood up to raise the tune, which was ‘Martyrdom.’ Ewan 
M‘Fadyen’s mode of conducting the psalmody was unique in 
the extreme, and alas! too often provocative of mirth among 
the ungodly strangers who were occasional visitors to the kirk 
of Amulree. He held the book directly out from his nose, 
and had his five fingers carefully spread out upon the boards. 


THE KIRK OF AMULREE. 


49 


After having read aloud the first two lines in a half singing 
voice, he cleared his throat, and attempted to raise the first 
note. But it would not come, as a usual thing, until the fourth 
or fifth clearing of the throat, each time more loudly than 
before, and with his one eye closed up all the time. The 
magic seemed to lie in his fingers, for when they began to 
move on the boards Ewan moved also, and the tune was raised. 

His utter unconsciousness of any oddity or singularity in his 
preliminaries was most delightful to behold ; but it was a fear- 
ful trial to the decorum of those unaccustomed to the scene. 
The Laird’s wife shook with silent laughter, and even Macdonald 
thought Ewan excelled himself. Sheila amused him, perhaps, 
more than Ewan. She stood on tiptoe on the seat, with her 
small neck craned, in order that she might have a full view of 
the precentor’s box. There was no smile on her face, or any 
sign of amusement — only a look of perfect, solemn wonder, 
which was irresistible. I fear that, on the whole, the spirit of 
solemnity befitting the solemn exercises of the day was rather 
wanting in the Laird’s pew that morning. Edith, however, 
enjoyed the sermon, and had time to compose her thoughts. 
She wished, indeed, that the service had closed with the 
sermon, for Ewan’s extraordinary gestures and grimaces once 
more banished every serious thought from her mind. They 
did not hasten out of the church, and when they rose at length 
all the benches were empty except the seat where Ellen 
Macleod sat, with her grave-faced boy by her side. Edith saw 
her, and, without a moment’s hesitation, stepped round before 
the precentor’s box, and stood directly before her. 

1 Ellen,’ she said, and her sweet voice shook as she extended 
her hand, ‘ we are in the house of God. Will you not touch 
my hand in token of friendship and forgiveness if I have un- 
wittingly done wrong?’ 

It was an appeal few could have resisted. The eyes of 
Fergus were raised to his mother’s face with an imploring look, 
but without any effect on the stony heart of Ellen Macleod. 
She rose from her seat, and, without raising her veil, swept 
her brother’s wife a little haughty curtsey, and passed out of 
the church. 


5 


SHEILA . 


So 


Edith hastily drew down her own veil, not wishing her 
husband to see her tears. But he saw the whole scene, and 
when she joined him there was a dark cloud on his brow. 

4 You ought not to have humiliated yourself to her, Edith,’ 
he said, more hastily than he had ever spoken to her before. 
But at that moment their attention was directed by Ewan 
M 4 Fadyen standing on the doorstep in his robe of office, with a 
bland smile on his face. 

4 I wish you good-morning, Laird, and a full measure 
of prosperous felicity to yourself and your noble lady,’ said 
Ewan, trotting out his best English and most 4 lang-nebbit ’ 
words to grace the occasion; ‘and I make bold to prophesy 
and prognosticate that never, in all the pellucid annals of the 
ancient house of Macdonald, has a fairer, more noble lady 
reigned paramount in Dalmore.’ 

It was a happy interruption, and the Laird burst into a 
laugh. 

‘ Oh, Ewan, man, spare your lang-nebbit words. Stick to 
plain speaking or Gaelic, if you want to be impressive,’ he said. 

‘ Mrs. Macdonald, let me present Ewan M‘Fadyen, our worthy 
precentor. He is a tenant in Achnafauld. You’ll likely know 
him better by and by.’ 

‘ I hope so,’ said Edith ; and, with a pleasant smile, she 
extended her hand to honest Ewan. 

‘ May every auspicious blessing descend on your honourable 
head, madam 1 ’ he said, bending his shaggy head over it. ‘ As 
I said before, I prognosticate again that you will be the author 
and originator of many blessed days for Dalmore.’ 

Macdonald, laughing still, took his wife on his arm and 
hurried her out to the carriage, which he had ordered to be in 
waiting to convey them up the steep ascent to Dalmore. The 
country folks were lingering about the churchyard and the 
manse road, eager for a better look at the Laird’s wife. They 
were mostly his tenants, though Edith did not know it, but she 
had a smile for all. Just as Macdonald handed his wife into 
the carriage, a horseman rode up, and, taking off his hat, drew 
rein, evidently wishing to be presented. 

4 Angus M‘Bean, farmer in Auchloy, and my steward, Edith,’ 


THE KIRK OF AMULREE. 


5i 


whispered Macdonald. ‘ You must excuse us, M‘Bean. Come 
up to the house and pay your respects to Mrs. Macdonald. The 
kirk door is hardly the place to hold a levee.’ 

Somewhat chagrined, Mr. M‘Bean raised his hat again, and 
rode off. He had hoped for a better reception before all the 
cottars, and Mrs. Macdonald’s acknowledgment of him had been 
a little distant. She was not, indeed, very favourably impressed 
by his hard, keen visage and rather forward manners. Angus 
M‘Bean did not like to be called a land-steward. He always 
called and wrote himself factor to Macdonald of Dal more. 

4 The manners and customs up here are rather primitive, 
Graham,’ said Mrs. Macdonald, as the carriage rolled along the 
smooth road to the Girron Brig. 

‘ Ay ; perhaps I ought to have prepared you for Dugald’s 
eccentricities. We are accustomed to them, and they do not 
strike us. He is quite a character. Did you notice his noble 
manner of expressing himself? ’ 

‘It is about as absurd as his singing,’ laughed Edith. 

‘ Ay ; if he can get a long word hauled in, in it goes, whethei 
it has any fitness or not. I suppose it must have some sig- 
nificance to himself. They get some terrible laughs at him, 
along at Donald Macalpine, the smith’s. Well, Sheila, you are 
very quiet.’ 

‘ Oh, mamma, such a funny, funny church 1 ’ said Sheila, 
able to laugh now at what had held her spell-bound at first. 
‘ Did you ever see a church where dogs go to ? Papa, may I 
take Tory next Sunday ? ’ 

‘I doubt Tory would not keep so quiet as Colin. He has 
not been trained to church-going,’ said Macdonald. ‘The 
shepherds’ dogs always accompany their masters to church in 
the Highlands.* 

‘ Fergus never came to speak to us, papa. Does he live far 
away from here ? ’ 

‘ At the other side of the church. I daresay you will see him 
to-morrow. He is always about on the hills,’ said Macdonald ; 
and began to name some of the hills to Edith, for he saw her 
eyes cloud. Ay, Ellen Macleod had cast a shadow on Dalmore 
which would be ever present with its gentle mistress, robbing 


5 2 


SHEILA. 


her married life of half its sweetness. Macdonald, who was not 
in the least put about by his sister’s foolish conduct, except to 
feel a trifle annoyed when any new phase of it struck him, 
could not understand how it weighed upon his wife’s heart, nor 
how she brooded upon it in silence and solitude, and prayed 
that the only cloud on her happiness might be swept away. 
It might have given Ellen Macleod a grim satisfaction had she 
known that her uncompromising enmity was to her brother’s 
wife a veritable skeleton in the cupboard. 

‘Now, Edith/ said Macdonald, following her up to her 
dressing-room when they entered the house, ‘ I could not hear 
what you said to Ellen, but I know it was an appeal of some 
sort. It is to be the last. She shall beg your pardon before 
she sets foot in Dalmore again. I mean what I say/ 

He put his hands with a kind of rough kindness on her 
shoulders, and turned her face to him, in order to enforce his 
words. She tried to smile at him, as she answered tremu- 
lously, — 

‘ I wanted to give her a chance, Graham. I am so happy, I 
cannot bear that there should be any cloud. Do you think she 
will relent? * 

‘Do you see Craig Hulich over there, Edith? Do you think 
it could w T alk over here and place itself in the Girron Burn? 
Ellen Macleod will never forgive you, so the sooner you forget 
that she is in existence the better/ 

‘I am sorry for the boy. We must try and make it up to 
him, Graham/ 

‘ If she will let me. But she’ll watch him, poor laddie 1 like 
a hawk. But 1*11 keep my eye on Fergus for his father’s sake, 
and for his own. He’s as fine a lad as ever w r ore the kilt, and 
none of his mother’s ill-temper about him, if she does not spoil 
him in the making/ 

It seemed a fearful thing to Edith Macdonald that a woman 
should cherish a mortal enmity in her heart, and pride herself 
that she never forgave an injury. She could not understand 
Ellen Macleod’s fierce, dark creed ; her heart had in it nothing 
of resentment, but only pity, and she would have served 
her if she had any opportunity. But Ellen Macleod went home 


THE KIRK OF AMULREE. 


53 


to the plain house of Shonnen filled with hate and anger against 
her brother’s wife, who looked so fair and sweet and young by 
his side that day in the kirk of Amulree, sitting, in the seat 
she had usurped. And Fergus, weighed down by a feeling of 
desolation and misery he could not understand, walked with 
downcast head by her side, and never a word passed between 
them. The boy suffered as she had no idea of. He had a 
feeling heart and a sensitive soul. Perhaps he w r as too young 
to comprehend the difference his uncle’s marriage might make 
for him ; but I would rather believe that there was that in him 
which could rise above such selfish and sordid considerations. 
I do not think that Fergus M‘Leod, though he is not perfect, 
will disappoint us in the end. 

4 Did you see the vain thing, like a peacock, with the nodding 
feathers in her bonnet? — not a fit head-dress for the kirk,’ said 
his mother, finding her tongue at length, when they came in 
sight of Shonnen. 4 A vain, empty peacock ! and she has made 
a bonnie fool of j our Uncle Graham.’ 

4 How, mother ? ’ 

4 1 saw the folk laugh at the old grey-headed man handing 
her with such pride into the coach. Sill}', silly fools! She’ll 
lead him a fine dance yet, or I’m mistaken. What did you 
think of her, Fergus?’ she asked, suddenly bending her dark 
eyes keenly on the boy at her side. 

4 1 thought, mother, she looked like an angel,’ said the boy 
simply, and without hesitation ; for such, indeed, had been his 
thought as he saw the pale, fair, sweet countenance shining 
under the nodding feathers of the bridal bonnet. 

4 Oh, of course you’ll stick up for her!’ said his mother 
sourly. 4 Boy, do you think there is no duty from a son to his 
mother? I think I’ll need to get you to read the command- 
ments and the Catechism this very day.’ 

The boy’s lips quivered ; and when they passed through the 
gate of Shonnen, instead of following his mother into the house, 
he turned round the end, and, climbing up the rising ground, 
threw himself down on a heathery hillock among the scanty 
birches. 

Colin followed, and, sitting down beside him, lifted one sober 


54 


SHEILA. 


paw and let it fall on his master’s bach. His tail was wagging 
sympathetically all the while, and suddenly Fergus flung his 
arms around his neck, and buried his face in his shaggy hair. 

‘ Oh, Colin, lad! * he cried, and all the sore grief he found so 
ill to thole was expressed in that weary cry, 4 there’s only you 
an’ mel* 




CHAPTER VL 


THE NETHER MILLSTONE. 



Dark is the soul whose sullen creed can hind 
In chains like these. 

0. 'W. Holmes. 

ACDONALD rode down to Shonnen Lodge next morn- 
ing before breakfast. He knew his sister was an 
early riser, and he was anxious to have this matter 
settled as soon as possible. He was very angry 
that she should have dared to send the boy to the Fauld school, 
and knew it was only done in a moment of passion to vex him. 
For Ellen was proud enough ; and, though it had pleased her 
to make a great talk about the poverty and obscurity to which 
her brother’s marriage had consigned her, she would not have 
allowed any one else to hint at such a thing. To any outsider, 
not intimately connected with the family, she professed herself 
quite well pleased with the new arrangement at Dalmore. 

Fergus, an early riser too, was out on the hill, and, seeing his 
uncle come, flew down to meet him. 

4 Yes, you can take Mora, and ride her gently along the road, 
Fergus, while I talk to your mother. Up you go 1 9 

With a little assistance from his uncle, Fergus sprang 
delightedly to the saddle, and cantered off down the road 
towards Loch Fraochie. His uncle stood a moment to admire 



56 


SHEILA. 


the boy’s splendid bearing in the saddle, and to note how well 
he kept the fiery mare in curb. Fergus Macleod feared no 
living thing in the world except his mother. 

The door was open, and Macdonald walked unceremoniously 
into the house. He found his sister in the little dining-room, 
sitting over the fire doing nothing. She merely looked up at 
her brother’s entrance, but did not signify in any way that she 
was aware of his presence. 

4 Well, Ellen, how are you? Fine morning after the rain,’ he 
said heartily. 

4 Is it? ’ she asked briefly ; for she resented the happy, hearty 
ring in his voice, the brightness in his eye ; all signs of the 
happiness she so sorely grudged him. She considered them 
insulting to herself in her poor estate. 

‘Fergus came up to welcome his aunt on Saturday night, 
though you didn’t. Still in the tantrums, eh?’ 

Ellen Macleod made no reply. 

*1 didn’t think you’d keep up an ill-will so long, Ellen,’ 
he said gravely. ‘ Will you not come up and see my 
wife? ’ 

‘ I passed my word, Macdonald. All I ask from you and 
yours now is to be left alone/ 

4 You are likely to be. You are not such pleasant company, 
ma’am,’ returned Macdonald candidly. 4 It’s the boy I’m come 
about. So you’ve swallowed your pride, and sent him to school 
with the cottars’ sons ? What’s to be the meaning or end of 
this, I’d like to know ? * 

‘I can do what I like with my own, I suppose?’ said Ellen 
Macleod slowly; ‘and as Fergus will have to earn his bread 
by the labour of his hands, he had better accustom himself 
early to the society in which he is likely to move in future.* 

‘ Ah, well ! it won’t do the lad any harm for a year or so,’ said 
Macdonald ; and his off-hand way was extremely galling to his 
sister. ‘ I’ll step in when I think there’s need. You’re making 
a pretty fool of yourself, Ellen, before the country-side, I can 
tell you/ 

4 Much do I care for the talk of the ccun try-side ! ’ she 
exclaimed passionately. 4 Go back to your pink-faced wife, 


THE NETHER MILLSTONE. 


57 

Macdonald, and leave me and mine in peace. You look gay 
and happy enough. You can do without us/ 

‘ Oh, very well ; as I said before, it was the boy I came to 
see after. You won’t be able to keep him out of Dalmore, 
Ellen/ 

‘I have laid my commands on him again. If he disobeys 
them he is to be severely punished/ 

‘Then the boy is to suffer too?’ said Macdonald more 
gloomily. ‘Be careful how you treat him, Ellen. It will not 
be easy for him to keep aw'ay from the old place. Let him 
come and go as he likes/ 

‘No, I shall not. If I am cruel it is to be kind. He would 
only set his heart more and more on the place, and the awaken- 
ing would be ten times more bitter. You are very wise in 
your own conceit, Macdonald, but you can’t teach a mother how 
to treat her own son.’ 

‘Well, well, perhaps not. I suppose I may speak to him in 
passing, may I ? ’ asked Macdonald, with a slight smile, as he 
turned to go. 

She vouchsafed him no reply, and so the unsatisfactory 
interview came to an end. 

Macdonald was not in the least depressed by it, except 
for the boy’s sake. He felt tempted to press him to come to 
Dalmore as often as he pleased, but it would not be right, he 
knew, to set so young a child in direct defiance of his mother’s 
will, though that will were harsh and unjust. 

‘ Oh, Uncle Graham ! it is just splendid to ride Mora/ cried 
Fergus, when he drew rein, breathlessly, in the middle of the 
road before his uncle. ‘When I’m a man I’ll buy a horse just 
like Mora.’ 

‘ In the meantime, my boy, what is to become of your own 
Donald? He’ll eat his head off in the stable if you don’t come 
up to Dalmore.’ 

Fergus threw himself from the saddle, and his uncle saw that 
his eyes were wet. 

‘We must manage somehow, Fergus,’ said Macdonald 
cheerify. ‘ When you want Donald, send one of the village 
boys up, and he’ll bring him down to the Girron Brig for you. 


58 


SHEILA. 


And don’t vex yourself. This cloud’ll maybe blow over sooner 
than you think.* 

‘ Oh, Uncle Graham l ’ The boy’s face positively glowed 
through his tears, and he laid his cheek against his uncle’s 
brown hand as it hung down by Mora’s side. 

‘Do your best at Peter Crerar’s, Fergus, and keep Angus 
M‘Bean in order,* said Macdonald, with a twinkle in his eye. 
‘And never forget that your uncle’s in Dalmore — ay, and 
your aunt, too, Fergus. She wouldn’t hurt a hair of your 
head.’ 

‘ Oh, I know. Good-bye.’ 

Graham Macdonald did not readily part with money, but if 
ever the generous impulses of his heart had been called into 
play, the last few weeks had done it. Edith Murray had 
wrought a change, indeed, in grim Macdonald of Dalmore. 

So, when Mora cantered off, Fergus found himself with a 
golden sovereign in his palm, and what was much better, a 
glow of pleasure at his heart. Maodonald was a king in his 
nephew’s eyes ; for, whatever the man’s faults, and they were 
many, he had been a kind, affectionate guardian to his sister’s 
son. Macdonald restrained his impatient Mora, and rode 
slowly along the river-side, keeping his eye on the fields as he 
went. 

A backward summer had made a late harvest in Strathbraan 
and Glenquaich, and the cottars in Achnafauld, wkose crofts 
stood on the damp, cold soil at the top of Loch Fraochie, were 
like to have a poor return for their labour. There were 
several fields, indeed, lying partially submerged, and the 
standing stooks had a blackened, stunted appearance, which 
augured ill for the quality of the grain. Macdonald himself 
did not interfere with his tenants, all his dealings with them 
being carried on through the medium of Angus M‘Bean, the 
factor, who lived in Auchloy, a snug domicile on the Garrows 
side of the loch. If there was a man in the strath hated 
and feared, it was Angus M‘Bean, but by dint of his smooth 
tongue and economical management of the estate he had made 
his position secure. He was indispensable to the Laird. Mac- 
donald had really not the remotest idea of the way the tenants 


THE NETHER MILLSTONE. 


59 


were ground to the earth, and because he exacted the rent 
to the uttermost farthing, did not know at what cost and 
sacrifice it was paid. And Angus M‘Bean took very good 
care that there were very few direct comings and goings betwixt 
the Laird and the tenants. Macdonald was struck by the 
pitiable appearance of the crofts, and determined to ask 
Angus M‘Bean whether the poorer cottars were not likely 
to sustain any loss. It was the Laird’s boast that his factor 
was a thoroughly practical man, for he had not only been in 
his early days a cottar himself, but had for many years now 
been farmer in Auchloy, the largest holding attached to 
Dalmore. His experience, therefore, fitted him in a peculiar 
way to understand the workings of the estate and the needs 
of the tenantry. The man might know his business well 
enough, but he was a tyrant and a coward, and his disposition 
was selfish and avaricious in the extreme. Mr. M‘Bean did 
not approve of little crofts, nor of a large number of tenants 
on an estate. They gave too much trouble and too meagre 
returns, and it was his hope and ambition to see Achnafauld 
swept clean away from Glenquaich, and Dalmore and Findowie 
let out in large farms. But his progress was very slow. As 
long as the rents were paid, the Laird approved the cottars 
remaining on their crofts. The same families had inhabited 
the little thatched cottages for hundreds of years — in days, 
indeed, before the name of Macdonald was known in Glenquaich. 

The Laird was very seldom in the clachan, and when, on his 
return from visiting his sister, he rode Mora through the burn 
which wimpled past the doors, the wifies all ran out to give 
him a curtsey as he passed. They had a new interest in him 
now since he had become a married man, though they had 
thought him very stingy not to give something for them to 
make merry with at his bridal. The idea had never occurred 
to Macdonald himself, and nobody had suggested it to him. 
He drew rein and sprang from the saddle at the smith’s door, 
one of the mare’s shoes being loose. Donald Macalpine, the 
smith, was in at his breakfast, but in an instant he was out to 
wait upon the Laird, while Mary, his wife, looked at him over 
the white muslin screen at the window. 


6o 


SHEILA. 


4 Good-day, smith. Look to the mare’s hind foot, will you? 
A stone in the burn tripped her up, and some of the nails are 
out. Fine morning after the rain.* 

4 Ay, sir, sure it is/ said Donald. 

4 1 hope the Laird is weel, and his Leddy, too ? 9 

4 Very well, thank you. Poor weather for the harvest. 
The crofts seem in a sorry condition, Donald.’ 

4 Ay/ said Donald, shaking his head as he scraped the 
mare’s shoe with his knife. 4 The Lord has a queer way o’ 
workia’. It seems to me a needless wastry, an’ a sinfu’, though 
He can dae nae sin, to destroy the fruits of the earth after they 
are come to the ear.’ 

4 The sun may shine yet, Donald/ said the Laird cheerily. 

4 There seems to be bulk enough.’ 

4 Ay, but it’s as green as leeks/ was Donald’s brief comment. 

4 Wo, beestie ! stand still.’ 

Mora was growing impatient of the strange touch on her 
dainty limb, and it required all the smith’s strong energy to 
keep her quiet. 

‘Anything new in the Fauld, Donald?* asked the Laird. 

4 Naething, but that Jenny Menzies has gotten Jock’s twa 
bairns hame from Glesca, an’ a bonnie ootcry she’s makin’ about 
them.’ 

4 What has become of Jock?’ 

4 Deid ; an’ his wife an’ a’. They’re nice bits o’ bairns. The 
lassie’s a wee doo ; the laddie has a wan’ert look. Malcolm 
and Katie, they are ca’d.’ 

4 Two more scholars for Peter Crerar/ laughed the Laird. 
4 Ye hae gotten my nephew to school in the Fauld.’ 

4 Ay, sure, an’ Peter Crerar himsel’ is neither to baud nor 
bind ower it/ said the smith. 4 Weel, he’ll get a guid education 
frae Peter. He has a heid.’ 

4 Well, well, it will do the lad no harm, Donald. Is she all 
right now?’ said the Laird, springing to his saddle. ‘Thanks 
to you ; give my respects to Mary.’ 

Donald, with his hands under his leather apron, watched 
the Laird ride round by Rob Macnaugh ton’s corner, then 
slowly sauntered into the house, which was pervaded by a 


THE NETHER MILLSTONE. 


61 

fine smell of toasted oatcakes, Mary being busy with her 
baking. 

‘That was the Laird?’ Mary said, her sonsy face full of 
interest. 

‘Ay, it was. I never saw the Laird mair frank an’ free, 
Mary Maca’pine,’ Donald answered; ‘I canna think him as 
bad a man as Angus M‘Bean of Auchloy would make cut. 
There’s a kindness in his eye like a sun-blink on the loch. I’d 
a mind to ask him was it his wull that the loch fishin’ was 
ta’en awa’ frae us. But I’ll do it another day, Mary Macalpine, 
as sure as I stand here.’ 

‘ Donald, ye’ll not meddle wi’ it, my man, or we’ll have 
Angus M‘Bean down on us, an’ lie’s an ill enemy. Eh! Katie 
Menzies, my lamb, is that you?’ she cried, with a motherly 
smile at a bonnie wee girlie, with yellow hair and eyes like the 
forget-me-not, who looked shyly in at the door. 

‘Is Malky here?’ she asked, with a strong west country 
accent. ‘ The skule’s gaun in, an’ auntie’s awfu’ angry. 
Malky ’s no’ ready to gang. He got pawmies yesterday, an’ 
he’ll get them the day, for the maister’s an’ awfu’ crabbit 
man.’ 

‘ Ay, Malky disna like the maister. Rin ye to the skule, 
Katie. Gie her a farl, Mary, an’ let her awa’,’ said the smith 
kindly. ‘I’ll look for Malky. He’ll be seekin’ his lesson 
by the loch-side or on ‘he hill.’ 

‘ He’s gaen gyte wi’ Rob Macnaugh ton’s sangs,’ said 
Mary, as she gave Katie a crisp oatcake and a pat on the 
cheek. 

The smith laughed, and, lighting his pipe, stood in the porch 
a minute watching the bairns gathering in for the school. His 
heart warmed to them, and his eyes were filled with a fine light 
of soft tenderness. Mary and he had had but one child, who 
now slept in the burying-ground at Shian. 

He did not need to go far to seek Malcolm, the truant. He 
saw him away up the hill near Auchloy, a solitary, lonely figure 
among the browsing sheep. The bairn was a strange bairn, 
not like others. He loved nothing better than to wander by 
himself among the hills or by the burns, which were a great 


62 


SHEILA. 


and wonderful revelation to the boy, whose eyes till now had 
seen nothing but paved streets and big stone houses, which 
seemed to touch the very sky. 

He was a thorn in the flesh to hard, grasping Janet Menzies, 
his aunt, who looked upon the bairns as a heavy burden, and 
specially prophesied that the boy would never come to any 
good. 




CHAPTER VII. 

BAIRN DATS. 

O little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish heat — 

Such limitless and strong desires. 

Longfellow. 


HERE was no School Board in Achnafauld, and the 
cottars conducted their own municipal and educa- 
tional matters to please themselves. There was 
only schooling six months in the year, from 
November till May, the children being required on the land 
in the summer. The teacher, Peter Crerar, the son of a small 
farmer on the opposite side of the river, was a clever young 
man, quite competent for his duties, and many a good scholar 
was turned out of that primitive schoolroom by the edge of the 
Achnafauld burn. For his six months’ work, Peter Crerar 
received the sum of £6 ; but his food was found, as he obtained 
his meals in rotation at the house of each pupil’s parents. His 
own home w r as so near at hand, he had his lodging there, 
though, had he been from a distance, bed would have been 
found as well as board. It was a primitive arrangement, but 
all parties were satisfied, and the foundation of a good, solid 
education was laid in these young minds at a very nominal 
cost. 

Such was the academy to which, in a fit of spleen, Mrs. 

63 



6 4 


SHEILA. 


Ellen Macleod had elected to send her son. There was a school 
in Amnlree of a more ambitious type, but she had chosen 
Achnafauld because it was on Dalmore lands, and also because 
the factors son, young Angus M‘Bean, went to it. Not that 
the two boys had ever been friendly, the difference in their 
dispositions forbade it ; but, of course, Ellen Macleod knew 
nothing of this. She had a great respect for Dalmore’s factor, 
and though she was a shrewd woman in most things, she could 
not see through Angus M‘Bean. He was a hypocrite and a 
time-server, a man who would spare no effort to advance his 
own selfish and avaricious ends. He had held the factorship 
for five years, and had commended himself to the Laird by his 
assiduous attention to his interests. Never had there been less 
trouble on Dalmore and Findowie ; never had the rents been 
so punctually paid. Nevertheless, Angus M‘Bean was slowly 
undermining the relations betwixt the cottars and the Laird, 
and discontent was smouldering hotly in Achnafauld. 

Fergus Macleod had enjoyed his study under Mr. Macfarlane 
at the manse of Amulree, and he thought it a strange and new 
thing that his mother should send him to Peter Crerar’s school. 
As the smith stood in the doorway that morning, he saw the 
tall, handsome lad, in his dark Macdonald kilt, coming up the 
burn-side, and he shook his head. 

‘ It’s hard on the laddie, ay is it ; the Fauld schooling no’ for 
him,’ said Donald to himself ; for the expression on the boy’s 
face struck him. His head was down, and though he was 
walking quickly, there was a lack of energy and buoyancy 
about his whole demeanour. The smith, by reason of his fine 
instincts, was quick to note the significance of expression and 
attitude in both old and young. He saw at once that young 
Fergus Macleod was under a shadow, and his heart was full 
of sympathy for him. Under pretence of going to look for 
Malcolm, he sauntered through the clachan, and met Fergus at 
the stepping stones. 

‘ A fine mornin’, sir,’ he said, touching his bonnet as respect- 
fully as if he had been speaking to the Laird. 

‘Ay, Donald, a fine morning,’ answered Fergus, with a 
sudden flash of a smile, like sunshine. 


BAIRN DA YS. 


65 


* Ye are for the school, I see?’ said Donald. 4 How d’ye like 
in-bye? Does Peter Crerar come up to Mister Macfarlane? ’ 

Fergus gave his bag a push on his shoulder, and a slight, 
tremulous smile crossed his face. 

‘I like Mr. Crerar very well, Donald, but I don’t like the 
school as well as the manse/ 

‘Never mind, lad ; it’s a deescipline. The Lord has His ain 
ways o’ workin’, an’ guid comes oot o’ evil. Ye’ll be a daur on 
oor slips o’ laddies ; Peter Crerar has his ain to dae wi’ them.’ 

‘ He taws plenty, Donald. There’s Malcolm Menzies on the 
hill near Auchloy. Is he not coming to school to-day ? ’ 

‘Dear only kens. The laddie’s gane wud sin’ he cam’ frae 
Glesca. I was pitten’ a shae on yer uncle’s meer this mornin’, 
Maister Fergus/ 

‘ Isn’t she a beauty, Donald ? ’ quoth the lad, his eye kind- 
ling with enthusiasm. 4 When Pm a man I’ll have a mare 
like Mora/ 

4 Ay, I houp sae ; mony o’ them, sir,’ said Donald fervently, 
for Fergus was a prime favourite of his. ‘There’s the wee 
M‘Bean coinin’ by Dugal Bain’s. He’s late.’ 

4 So am I. Mr. Crerar never taws M‘Bean nor me, and it 
isn’t fair, for we need it as bad as the rest,’ said Fergus, cross- 
ing the burn at a bound. 

4 He wadna like to lick you, Maister Fergus, and the wee 
M‘Bean he daurna. Though I think vvi’ you, Peter shouldna 
mak’ flesh o’ ane and fish o’ anither.’ 

Fergus laughed as he ran off, though he did not fully under- 
stand Donald’s expression. He came up with the factor’s son 
at the school door, but no greeting passed between them. 
Angus M l Bean, indeed, scowled at Fergus from under his 
heavy brows, but Fergus did not change his serene expression. 

4 We’re late, Angus,’ he said cheerily, for though he had 
given him a thrashing he deserved, he was not one to keep up 
spite. 

But Angus only scowled the deeper. He was what country 
folk call an 4 ill-kindet loon,’ and there was nothing in his 
appearance to win approbation. He was a little, squat fellow, 
with a fat, freckled face, and a shock of red hair. ‘Puddin 

6 


66 


SHEILA. 


M^Bean,* he was irreverently called among the youngsters of 
the Fauld, who recognised no class distinction, and hated him 
with a cordial hatred. 

It suited the factor to send his boy for the winter months to 
the Fauld school, as it gave him ground for posing as a 
humble, unassuming man before the Laird, and he pretended 
to have the love of a brother and the interest of a true friend 
in his old neighbours. But they knew better. 

On the whole, Fergus Macleod did not greatly dislike the 
school, though, brought up as he had been, it was certainly a 
change for him to sit side by side with the rough cottar lads, who 
stared at his kilt, and made remarks to each other in Gaelic, which 
he only partially understood. Peter Crerar, out of his desire to 
do honour to the Laird’s nephew, set up a small form near his 
desk, and put Fergus on it, alongside Angus M‘Bean ; but the 
lad, young though he was, felt that no such distinction ought to 
be made, and begged that he might be allowed to sit among the 
rest. He was not any further forward than the bigger boys, 
for he was not much inclined, as yet at least, for study, and 
Mr. Macfarlane had not pushed him. Angus M‘Bean was, no 
doubt, the sharpest boy in the school. In spite of the dour, 
slow, stupid look, his mental faculties were keen enough, and 
he speedily left his compeers behind. He had a profound 
contempt for the clachan lads, and showed it in every possible 
way ; and though they all hated him, he had never been laid a 
hand on till Fergus Macleod thrashed him. He caught him 
one day after he had pushed wee Katie Menzies from the 
stepping-stones into the burn, and nearly put her into a fit 
with fright. These were the sorts of things that amused the 
factor’s son, so it may be guessed that there was not much love 
lost between Fergus and him. 

The Lord’s Prayer was over, and all the slates out that 
morning, when the door was quickly opened, and a pale-faced 
lad, with large, melancholy eyes, came creeping into the room. 
It was Malcolm Menzies, who had returned unwillingly from 
his wanderings. He did not like the irksome routine of the 
school, and Peter Crerar, having no patience with the slow, 
shrinking, sensitive boy, who never had his lessons ready, was 


BAIRN DA YS. 


6 7 


needlessly hard upon him. No doubt, the strong, lazy urchins 
of Achnafauld needed the wholesome discipline of the tawse, 
and their brown paws could stand a very honest number of 
pawinies; but it was different with Malcolm Menzies. Wee 
Katie, who had been anxiously watching for her brother, made 
room on the form for him, and the boy slipped into his seat 
with a look of anxious fear. He was not allowed to sit on the 
front form with the big boys, who laughed at him, the 4 toon’s 
laddie,’ as they called him, for being so backward and stupid at 
his lessons. The master was busy in the cupboard in the wall 
behind his desk, and as his back was to the scholars, he did 
not see Malcolm enter. But this was an opportunity for show- 
ing a mean revenge on the Menzies, which Puddin’ M‘Bean did 
not intend to let slip. So, when the master turned round and 
asked what the noise was, he was told that it was Malcolm 
Menzies coming in late. Now the master had had a good deal 
of trouble with Malcolm Menzies, who seemed to have no sense 
of the passage of time, and would come into the school at any 
time of the day. Only three days before he had been punished 
for the same offence, and Peter Crerar, being an ordinary, hot- 
headed young man, who thought the tawse the only way of 
establishing law and order in the school, made up his mind he 
would stand it no longer. 

4 Malcolm Menzies, come up ! ’ he said, in that quiet way he 
was wont to assume in his sterner moods. 

Poor Malcolm trembled and grew paler, if that were possible, 
and wee Katie began to cry quietly, with her apron to her eyes. 
The boys, who enjoyed, as is the manner of their kind, 4 a 
lickin’ ’ given to another, sat up expectantly, and Puddin’ 
M‘Bean grinned consequentially behind his slate. 

4 You’re a mean sneak, Angus M 4 Bean ! and I’ll give it you at 
leave,’ whispered Fergus savagely ; for his hot Macdonald blood 
sprang up at the cowardly tell-tale. 

4 I’ll tell the maister on you too, if you don’t take care,’ said 
Angus scowlingly. He was very brave when he w^as safely out 
of danger’s way. 

Meanwhile, Malcolm Menzies, positively shivering with fear, 
came very, very slowly up between the forms to the master’s desk. 


68 


SHEILA. 


‘ Where have you been, eh ? ’ asked Peter Crerar, in a loud, 
peremptory voice. 

* Up by Auchloy. I forgot, sir ; an’ oh, dinna lick me, an’ 
I’ll never dae’t again 1 ’ said the lad piteously, but with dry 
eyes. Even after the worst licking he had never been seen to 
cry, but he brooded over things, and suffered often a thousand 
times more than the rest had any idea of. The smith partially 
understood him, but had refrained from giving Peter Crerar 
any instructions about him, thinking that the ordinary drilling 
at school might sharpen him up a bit, and knock the sensitive 
shrinking out of him. 

‘ Just so,’ said the master grimly. 4 Hold out your hand.’ 

The boy did so nervously, but put it quickly behind his back 
before the stroke fell. Then the master lost his temper, and 
fell upon him, hitting him on the shoulders and on the bare 
calves of his legs without mercy, but the boy never uttered a 
sound. Fergus Macleod could not keep his eyes away from 
the scene, but it made him really sick, and at last he could 
stand it no longer, but sprang from his seat. 

1 Oh, sir, don’t 1 Stop, sir 1 Hit me. I’m abler than 
Malcolm ! ’ he cried, and held out his brave right hand at once. 

Then Peter Crerar put up his tawse, told Malcolm angrily 
to go back to his seat, and in his wrath actually bade ‘the 
Laird’s nephew hold his tongue. But it stopped the 1 licking,’ 
at which Puddin’ M‘Bean was grievously disappointed. Nothing 
pleased him better than the sight of another boy getting a 
good taste of the tawse. The pity was he should have so little 
experience of it himself. Malcolm Menzies crept back slowly 
to his seat, and sat down with a queer dazed look on his face. 
Wee Katie slipped her hand into his, and looked up into his 
face, her blue eyes shining with childish sympathy. 

* Dinna greet ony mair, Malky,’ she whispered ; but Malcolm 
drew himself away from her touch, and when he saw the 
master in the press again, he rose very quietly and went out 
of the door like a shot, and that was the last time Malcolm 
Menzies ever sat upon a school form. He ran all his might 
into the smiddy, where Donald, in his leisurely fashion, was 
preparing for his work. 


BAIRN DA YS. 69 

‘Weel, lad, what is’t ? ’ he asked kindly, when Malcolm’s 
shadow darkened the doorway. 

4 Oh, Donald, ask my auntie no’ to let me to the schule ! 9 
said the lad, in a solemn, weary voice. 4 1 canna go back to the 
schule/ 

‘What way can you an’ Peter Crerar no’ agree? Bless me! 
what’s the maitter wi’ yer legs ? ’ 

4 He did it,’ said the lad, with swelling bosom. 4 Oh, Donald, 
let me work in the smiddy or onything, but dinna let her send 
me to the schule. I winna gang.’ 

4 Weel, if ye winna gang, yc winna, I suppose. Gae awa’ to 
the peats, Malcolm, an’ help to load the cairt, or I speak to yer 
auntie,’ said the good-natured smith, who saw that the boy was 
fairly roused. He also feared that if practical Mary saw him she 
would think it her duty to send him back instantly to the school. 

So Malcolm, with a look of inexpressible relief, slipped 
quietly away round the smithy end, and away up to the road. 
He had absolute faith in Donald Macalpine, and did not fear 
what the end would be. Before leave-time it was noticeable 
that Puddin’ M 4 Bean began to grow uneasy in his seat ; and 
some of the lads who had overheard Fergus Macleod’s remark, 
nudged each other in delightful anticipation of another fight. 
But Puddin’ circumvented them by remaining in the school all 
leave-time, hoping that by the afternoon Fergus’s ire would 
have cooled. He had a very vivid recollection of what he had 
received at the same hands for knocking wee Katie into the 
burn, and had no wish to repeat the dose. 

When the school ‘scaled,’ Puddin’ made off; but Fergus 
was after him like a shot, and overtook him on the path before 
he had got up to the Auchloy road. 

4 Now then,’ said Fergus, laying down his books, and looking 
fixedly at the scowling, fat face of the cowardly boy, ‘ what did 
you mean by telling on Malcolm Menzies? Didn’t I tell you 
that if you meddled with any of the Menzies again, I’d — I’d 
do for you?’ 

‘ You’d — you’d better ! I’ll tell my father if you touch me/ 
said Angus dourly, shaking in his shoes, though he was two 
years older, and much more stoutly built, than Fergus. 


70 


SHEILA. 


‘ When you’re telling, be sure and tell what you were licked for, 
then,’ said Fergus, giving him a thump between the shoulders. 

By this time the whole school, like a hive of bees, were 
flocking up the path. Seeing he was sure to get the worst 
of it, Pud din’ began to cry, which so exasperated Fergus 
Macleod that on the impulse of the moment he gave him a 
good push, which shoved him over the bank into the burn. 
The recent rain had brought it down a little in flood, and the 
pools were deep and the current strong. But Angus managed 
to scramble up the bank, and then what a shout of laughter 
arose from the bairns! The whole scene was so comical, that, 
though he was sorry for M‘Bean’s plight, Fergus could not help 
joining heartily in the laugh. Then Puddin’, fairly roused, 
swore at Fergus, and ran off as fast as his legs would carry 
him to Auchloy. It was not far. About half a mile up the 
loch there was a fine sheltering clump of trees, in the midst of 
which stood Auchloy, the snug domicile of Macdonald’s factor. 
The house, one of the shooting lodges, had recently been 
repaired and added to, and presented a very roomy, substantial 
appearance. There was a commodious steading at the back, 
and a well-filled stackyard, for Angus M ; Bean held a large 
farm on the estate, and was always adding bit by bit to it. He 
had three children, Angus being the eldest, and then two little 
girls. Mrs. M‘Bean, looking out of the dining-room window, 
saw the boy coming up the little avenue, and wondered at his 
dejected appearance. She came to the door to see what was 
the matter. When she saw him all wet, she threw up her 
hands in amazement. 

‘ Mercy me, laddie ! where ha’e ye been ? Ha’e ye fau’n 
into the loch ? ’ 

In spite of her husband’s ambition to be a gentleman, and 
her own desire to be a fine lady, Mrs. M‘Bean could never 
learn to talk 4 English,’ greatly to her husband’s disgust. She 
was a south country woman, and would have been a fine, 
good-natured, harmless body if she had been let alone. But 
her efforts to seem other than she was, and to keep up her 
husband’s position and ambition, fretted her temper, and made 
her miserably unhappy. In spite of her big house, her fine 


BAIRN DA YS. 


7i 

clothes, and her horse and trap, she secretly often regretted the 
days when she had only been a cottar’s wife in Achnafauld. 

At sight of his mother, Angus instantly began to blubber ; 
and when he was drawn into the dining-room, where his father 
was, he managed to tell a beautiful story, which fixed all the 
blame on Fergus Macleod, and converted him into a hero. 

‘This is the second time Fergus Macleod has ill-used you,’ 
said the factor angrily. ‘ But never mind, Angus, lad,’ he 
added, stroking his stubbly red beard more complacently. ‘ The 
upsetting monkey ! His wings are clipped already, but we’ll 
manage to crush him yet.* 




CHAPTER Yin. 

AMONG THE FAULD FOLK. 


So these young hearts . . . 

Wandered at will. 

Tennyson. 

WISH you’d hold your tongue, Sheila Murray ! you’re 
frightening the fish, and they won’t bite. Lie 
down, Colin.’ 

‘ I’m tired seeing you fish. You can’t catch 
said Sheila, with the delicious candour of childhood. 
‘ Lay down your rod, and let us play. Colin can’t keep still, 
Fergus.’ 

‘You’re just a bother, Sheila,’ said Fergus, as he began to 
wind up his reel, for to him Sheila’s word was law. They 
were great friends — inseparable companions, indeed — these 
two, though Fergus Macleod had never once crossed the 
threshold of Dalmore since his uncle’s wife came home. Ellen 
Macleod had prevented him visiting the house, but she had laid 
no embargo on his actions outside, and had not the remotest 
idea of the long hours her boy and ‘ that woman’s child’ spent 
together. The Girron Brig was their trysting-place, and Colin 
their companion and protector, and the two bairns became 
almost necessary to each other’s existence. Those long summer 
days spent among the hills and by the burn-side with Fergus 
were dreams of delight to Sheila Murray, who had been 



anything,’ 



AMONG THE FAULD FOLK. 


73 


condemned to walk out by the Tay with a prim nursemaid, 
or play in solitary state in the little garden surrounding the 
cottage at Birnam. These days were scarcely a memory to 
the child. She never recalled them. She was boundlessly 
happy at Dalmore, and all the natural sunshine of her nature 
had freest vent. She was full of tricks, and brimming with 
laughter. There was no mischief done at Dalmore in which 
she was not concerned, and she was just adored in the house. 
The servants who had served under Ellen Macleod’s grim rule 
drew many a comparison, and blessed the day the Laird 
had brought home his gentle wife. She was not strong; she 
had not been many times at the foot of Crom Creagh since she 
came home, but she was serenely, boundlessly happy. What- 
ever her husband was to others, he was full of care and 
tenderness for her and for Sheila. She did not trouble her 
head about the child, but allowed her to run wild among the 
heather, and watched her bonnie face and her bare round arms 
taking on the sun-dye with undisturbed content, knowing what 
a stock of health she was laying in for the days when study and 
care would demand her attention. 

4 You don’t bother your head much about Sheila, Edith,’ 
said Macdonald one day. 4 Do you know where I saw her and 
the boy the other afternoon in the pouring rain?’ 

4 No; where?’ 

4 In the middle of the peat bog at Dalreoch. Fergus is 
learning botany from no less a person than Rob Macnaughton 
in the Fauld, and he trails poor Sheila everywhere with him.’ 

‘She is just as willing to be trailed,’ laughed Edith. ‘It is 
not among the heather, or even in wet peat bogs, any harm will 
come to Sheila, Graham. As long as she is a child she is safe.* 

4 1 shouldn’t wonder, now, Edith, if the bairns themselves 
settle the vexed question about Dalmore,’ laughed the Laird ; 
but Edith only smiled. She had no wish to anticipate the 
cares which encompass every mother’s heart when she has a 
daughter to settle in life. So the bairns were allowed to wander 
side by side, or hand in hand, by mountain, moor, and loch, 
and that summer Sheila was filled with a wealth of country 
lore. She knew the nest of the whaup and the pees weep, the 

7 


74 


SHEILA. 


haunt of the fox and the red deer, and the name of every wild 
flower which blew. That most perfect companionship between 
Fergus and herself laid the foundation of a deep affection which 
neither time nor circumstance could ever change, though it was 
destined to be rudely shaken by the vicissitudes of life. 

4 Look, Sheila,’ said Fergus, laying his rod on the grass, and 
picking the leaf of a green plant from the marshy edge of the 
burn ; 4 these leaves eat flies.’ 

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Sheila promptly. ‘How can a leaf 
eat anything? it has no mouth.’ 

‘Bob Macnaughton showed me it; when the fly gets on the 
plant, it folds all its leaves over it and squeezes it dead.’ 

‘ Oh, Fergus Macleod ! you horrid, cruel boy, to tell such 
stories ! ’ said Sheila reprovingly. ‘ Girn at him, Colin. Isn’t he 
a naughty boy ? ’ 

‘ I’d like to see Colin Macdonald girn at me, Sheila Murray. 
I’d girn him,’ said Fergus, as he began to take his rod to pieces. 
‘ I wish you were a boy, Sheila.’ 

‘ What for ? ’ 

‘ Because you’d like to fish, and chase hares, and all that 
kind of things. Girls always want to sit quiet, don’t they ? ’ 

‘ I don’t. If you don’t want me, you can go away home, 
Fergus Macleod,’ said Sheila quickly. ‘ I can play by myself 
with Colin.’ 

‘No, you can’t, or why do you always watch for me when I 
fish in the Girron? Besides, I never said I didn’t like you. 
You aren’t bad at all for a girl,’ said Fergus graciously. ‘I 
say, do you think you could walk to the Fauld ? ’ 

‘ Of course I could,’ said Sheila promptly. 

‘Well, come on; I want to speak to Bob Macnaughton about 
something very special, and if you like I’ll make him tell you 
about the mist - wraiths up Glenquaich. He’s seen them. 
Would you be frightened, Sheila?’ 

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Sheila; but her eyes opened wide with 
something like apprehension. ‘ What’s mist- wraiths ? ’ 

‘Things that live in the mountains,’ answered Fergus vaguely. 
4 I’m not very sure myself, because, you see, I never saw them. 
Rob’ll tell you all about them, and we can go to the smith’s 


AMONG THE FAULD FOLK. 


75 


as well. Mary will give you some cakes and milk. Then you 
will see wee Katie Menzies that I’ve told you about so often. 
She’s always at the smith’s.’ 

‘ Is she nicer than me ? ’ asked Sheila soberly. 

‘ Sometimes,’ answered Fergus, rather absently ; for they had 
crossed over the brig, and he was looking away over at Shonnen, 
with a look of pain in his eyes which one so young ought not 
to have known. 

‘ I don’t think you’re nice, anyway, Fergus,’ said Sheila, in 
rather an aggrieved voice, as they turned up the road to the 
Fauld. ‘ You just fished and fished, and never spoke at all.’ 

‘I w’as thinking, Sheila,’ said Fergus; and he brushed his 
hand over his eyes as he looked to the long, low, white-washed 
kirk of Amulree. ‘ Sheila, what would you think if some day, 
when you were a big woman, you went into the kirk there, and 
Sandy M‘Tavish brought up the Bible, and then opened the 
vestry door, and let in a new minister, not Mr. Macfarlane, and 
when you looked up it was me ? 9 

‘ You ! ’ Sheila stared with all her might, and then laughed 
right out. ‘ Oh, that would be funny ! ’ 

4 It might be funny for you, but it wouldn’t be very funny for 
me,’ said Fergus gloomily. ‘My mother says that in Septem- 
ber, just when Uncle Graham and them are out on the hills all 
day, I have to go to Perth to the school, and learn to be a 
minister.’ 

4 Oh, Fergus, what for? ’ 

‘ She says, Sheila, that I must learn to do something, for I 
have no money ; and that I must be a minister, because father 
was one, and it will be the best thing for me.’ 

There was a catch in the boy’s voice as he spoke, and Sheila’s 
sweet eyes filled with tears of sympathy, though she only parti- 
ally understood it all. 

‘ I’d rather dig peats all day, or be a gamekeeper like Lachlan 
Macrae, or break stones on the road, than go to be a minister, 
Sheila. I hate books and going to school.’ 

‘ But, Fergus, Uncle Graham has lots and lots of money. I’ll 
ask him to give you money, and not let you go to be a minister, 
if you don’t like it,’ said Sheila confidently. 


7 6 


SHEILA. 


Fergus smiled sadly, remembering with what hot, stinging, 
unsparing words his mother had denounced Aunt Edith and her 
little girl, and how she had said they had stolen his birthright 
from him. She had said a great deal — more, indeed, than Fergus 
understood — but that point was quite plain to him. And yet it 
made no difference in his feeling to Sheila, who had become as 
necessary to his existence as light and sunshine was to Aunt 
Edith, who was enshrined like a saint in his boyish heart. 
Whatever his mother might say, he would never change towards 
them nor blame them in the least. 

They walked a little way in silence, until, ascending one of 
the gentle elevations in the road, they saw Achnafauld and the 
silvery loch beyond shimmering in the radiance of the summer 
sun. A mystic, exquisite purple glow lay on the encircling 
hills ; a long, dry, bright summer had ripened the heather, and 
made it bloom before its time. 

4 Oh, Fergus,’ said Sheila, and she slipped her hand in his, 
4 isn’t it sunny and nice ? Never mind. Perhaps your mother 
won’t send you to be a minister yet.’ 

Fergus smiled. The beautiful scene spread before his eyes, 
in all its grand solitude and peace, had its effect upon him, and 
soothed his vexed spirit. 

4 Yonder’s a gig coming out of Auchloy, Sheila,’ he said, point- 
ing with his rod to the clump of trees hiding the factor’s 
residence. 4 1 see Puddin’ M 4 Bean in it.’ 

4 Why do they call him Puddin’?’ asked Sheila; and Fergus 
laughed at her curious pronouncing of the word. Sheila had a 
pure English accent yet, though she had picked up a few High- 
land words in her intercourse with the servants and with 
Fergus. 

‘ Because he is so fat. His face is like a bannock all dabbed over 
with little holes, like Mary M 4 Glashan’s scones,’ said Fergus, with 
more force than elegance of diction ; and Sheila only laughed. 

Mr. M‘Bean drove a high-stepping horse, and the light gig 
came rolling over the rough road at a splendid pace. 

4 Here’s Lady Macleod’s boy and the little girl from Dalmore, 
mistress,’ said the factor to his wife, who was on the back of the 
gig. 4 Take a good look at her.’ 


AMONG THE FAULD FOLK. 


77 

Which Mrs. M‘Bean certainly did, after the gig had passed 
the children, and the factor had duly saluted them. 

4 She’s a dainty wee lass, Angus. The bairns are very 
friendly-like,’ was her comment. 

4 Ay, that’ll do i’ the meantime,’ said the factor significantly. 
‘Dalmore’ll maybe come between them some day.’ 

4 1 don’t like Puddin’ M‘Bean very much; do you, Fergus?’ 
asked Sheila, who, having been greatly interested in her com- 
panion’s account of his exploits at the school, had been very 
anxious to see him. 

4 1 like him ! I’d like to put him in the burn every day till 
he was all washed away,’ said Fergus, who was addicted to the 
use of strong language, and had grown very combative of late. 
In fact, home influences were souring the sweet temper of the 
boy. Ellen Macleod had really no idea of the harm she was 
doing, and there was nobody honest enough or courageous 
enough to tell her. Macdonald, after that one futile morning 
call, had indeed let her severely alone, but whenever he had 
opportunity he heaped kind words and gifts on the boy, for his 
heart was sore for him. 

Hand in hand the pair passed on, and turned down the first 
beaten path into Achnafauld. Fergus chose this way because he 
wanted to show Sheila the pool in the burn where Puddin’ 
M‘Bean had got his 4 dookin’ ; ’ and there he had to help her 
over the stepping-stones, which were nearly dry with the long 
drought. It was past six o’clock, and the busy clang of the anvil 
was at rest and the smithy empty. Fergus hoped Donald would 
have his supper, and that he would be smoking by the side of 
the peat fire, for it was then, when his own pipe smoke went 
curling up in beautiful unison with the peat reek, that Donald 
was apt to glide into his most talkative and delightful moods. 

In all her wanderings with Fergus during the long days of 
summer, Sheila had never been in the Fauld before, nor within 
any of the cottars’ dwellings. She opened her big brown eyes 
very wide as she followed Fergus through the low narrow door 
into the kitchen, the floor of which was white and the roof black, 
the rafters having been varnished with the peat reek of genera- 
tions. The kitchen was the whole width of the house, and there 


7 » 


SHEILA. 


was a tiny window not much bigger than a port-hole, both to 
back and front. Then, just behind the door, there was the 
queerest, quaintest fire-place Sheila had ever seen in her life ; 
just a handful of peats burning among soft brown ash on two 
big flat stones, and a kettle hanging on a chain above it, and 
singing with all its might. 

A shaggy tan-coloured collie lay at full length before the fire, 
with a cat and two kittens on its back. On the one side there 
was a kind of rude couch covered with a faded tartan plaid. In 
the big arm-chair, by the peat bin in the wall, sat the smith him- 
self, enjoying his evening pipe. He took it from his mouth 
when the children came in, and rose up to receive them, with a 
slow, pleased smile on his bronzed and rugged face. Sheila 
looked at him a little shyly, and kept close by Fergus’s side, for 
the smith was a great big, uncouth-looking man, and the 
addition of an immense Scotch bonnet on his shaggy hair did 
not by any means soften the general outline. 

‘ An’ this is the wee leddy from Dalmore ? Mary Macalpine, 
here’s the gentry to see ye.’ 

Mary came out of the adjoining room, with a motherly smile 
of welcome, and bade them sit down while she ran to get cakes 
and milk. 

‘ We can’t stay long,’ Fergus exclaimed ; ‘ because we’re going 
over to Rob Macnaughton’s to hear about the mist-wraiths.’ 

‘Humph,’ said the smith, with a smile. ‘Ye ha’e surely 
gotten round Rob’s saft side. Does he no’ lock ye oot? ’ 

‘ O no, never,’ said Fergus. ‘I like Rob, and so will Sheila. 
Where’s Katie? She’s mostly here, isn’t she?’ 

‘Ay ; but Jenny Menzies, thrawn crone ! has ta’en the gee, an’ 
winna let the bairns come in. It was jealous she was of 
us — wasn’t she, Mary Macalpine? because the bairns, puir 
things ! liket our ingle neuk better nor her cauldrife hearth- 
stane. An’ what are ye daein’ wi’ yersel’ the noo, Maister 
Fergus?’ 

‘Nothing. I’m going to be a minister, Donald; and if you 
sleep in the kirk when I’m preaching I’ll cry out to you,’ said 
Fergus, with his mouth full of oatcake. 

‘A minister!’ The smith lifted his hands into the air. 


AMONG THE FAULD FOLK. 


79 

‘ As weel try to bridle the deer or cage the lark as pit goon an* 
bands upon you.’ 

‘Ay, for sure,’ said Mary, stroking Sheila’s soft brown curls 
with a very tender touch. 

‘I’d rather apprentice with you, Donald,’ said Fergus, with 
a melancholy smile. 

‘ Come then, Sheila. If we’re going to Rob’s, it’s time we 
were away.’ 

In a two-roomed house, near the roadside, dwelt Rob Mac- 
naughton, stocking-weaver and poet of Achnafauld. He 
was an unmarried man, and lived entirely by himself, not 
encouraging even his neighbours to disturb his solitude. He 
had a lame leg, and was not otherwise robust, though he was 
tall and powerfully built, and only in his prime. Fergus, 
with the fearless unconcern of childhood, went in and out all 
the Fauld houses, Rob’s not excepted, and had taken kindly 
to the morose, strange being, who was not a favourite in the 
Fauld, because he was not understood. As Donald had said, 
Fergus had got round the stocking-weaver, who would regale 
him by the hour with old legends, which were too weird 
and fearsome to have any foundation except in his own brain. 
Hand in hand, then, the bairns went through the clachan, and, 
without ceremony, entered Rob Macnaughton’s door. The 
loom was silent, and Rob himself was in the kitchen, sitting 
at the table, with an old copy-book before him and a quill pen 
behind his ear. He looked round in no well pleased way when 
he heard the sneck lifted ; but his face cleared at sight of 
the bairns, and he rose to welcome them at once. Sheila 
tightened her hold on the hand of Fergus as she looked at 
the big, loose figure, with the thin, embrowned, withered-look- 
ing face and the straggling grey beard and shaggy brows, 
beneath which there gleamed a pair of deep, flashing, penetrating 
eyes. 

‘ I have brought a lady to see you, Rob, and to hear 
about the mist - wraiths,’ said Fergus, as he closed the 
door. ‘ And you must tell every word of it, to the very 
end.’ 

‘Is this the sunbeam frae Dalmore?’ inquired Rob, with 


So 


SHEILA . 


a strange softening of Ins rugged features. 4 You are wel- 
come, luach machree.’ 

Sheila was reassured by that smile. There is no fear in 
childhood until it is implanted there by others. Rob placed 
chairs for them round the fire, and sat down himself; but 
Sheila planted herself by his side, and looked wonderingly 
and questioningly into his face. 

‘Tell us a story,’ she said, patting his hard knuckles with 
her little soft hand. That touch sent a thrill through the 
poet’s soul. 

4 I’ll sing ye a song, machree,’ he said half dreamily. 4 1 
was but at it when you came in.’ 

And, half closing his eyes, and laying one hand softly on 
the bright head of the child at his knee, Rob began to 
chant, in a low, musical voice, his own Gaelic, the sound of 
which kept both the children spell-bound. It was a pretty 
picture, rendered more so that they were all so unconscious 
of it. This was what Rob sang : — 

MOLADH GHLEANN CUAICH. 
le Iain Macneachdainn. 

Glean nan caorach, Gleanna cuaich nan cruaidh louch, 

Cha’n eil leithid ri fhaotainn an taobh so d’on Fhraing. 

Tha flialluing co priseil, barr fraoich ’s bun cioba, 

Is neconan is millse mu d’chrichibh ’s gach am 

Tha fallaineachd mhor anns a ghleannan bheag blioidheach, 

Tha ni agus etoras ann a d’choir anns gach am ; 

Tha sithionn an aonich ’s iasgach a chaolais 
Gu bailt ann ri fhaotainn ’us cho saor ris a bhurn, 

Tha leath-chearc ’us smudan agus coil^ch an dunain, 

Boc maoisich gu luth’or a suibbal nam beann ; 

Tha chaug ’s na smeorach ’s na badanaibh boidheach 
Fo fhasga na Sroina seinn ceol air gach crann, 

Tha ruadh-bhuic ’us maoisich ’us eildinn le’n laoigh ann, 

Daimh chabrach sraonach air aodainn nan tom, 

’S an earbag bheag laoghach bhios a comhnuidh ’s an doire 
’S eoin bhachlach bheag loaghach le’n ceileerebh binn. 

Tha tarmain ’s soin ruadha us lachidh chinn-uain ann, 

Maigheach ghlas a cheum nallach gach nar anns a Ghlean, 


AMONG THE FAULD FOLK. 


81 


Na codal g u guamach ’s na laganaibh naigneach 
Am fasga na luachrich na cuirteag gle chruinn. 

’Miair thig oirnn an Luinasd’s am direadh nan stucaibh, 

Bidh lamhachd air fudar ’s luaidh dhu-gborm na deann, 

Aig morearaibh *s aig Duicaibh, le’n cuilbheara dubailt, 

B’e an aighair’s an sugradh tighinn deu ort ’s gach am. 

Tba toilinntinn ri fhaotainn ma d’ghlacaibh tha faoilidh, 

Gar am biodh ach Loch Fraochidh na aonaran ann ; 

’S trie bha m3 le’m dhriamlaich ’s le’m chulae bheag riahacli, 

’S mo ghad air a lionadh le iasgaibh nan lann. 

Tha thu creaganach, sronach, feadanach, boidheach, 

Tha thu bileagach, foirleanach, romach, glan, grinn ; 

Gu dearcagach, broileagach, smeuragach, oireagach, 

’S gach meas bu roighneach sna coilltibh a cinn. 

Cha’n fhaight am folach aon am an a d’choirsa 
Ach muinean do’n choineach bu nosar glan grinn : 

Fraoch comhdach nan sleibhtean fo blathas mios a chestein, 

Is mil as ag eiridh mar eirthuinn nan tom. 

Tha’n abhainn gu brighor a tearnadh gun sigios oirr. 

Air leabaidh do’n phebble na sin ad chom, 

Dol seachad na lubaibh gun smalan gun smuir oirr, 

Is i ceadach am shuileabh mar shuicar glan pronn. 

Struth fiorghlan mar chriostal learn ’s miann bhi ga fhaicinn, 

Mar fhion-dearg tha bhlas domh ’s tu carach gu grinn, 

*S tu sruthan is boidhclie tha’n taobh so do’n Jordan, 

*S ged theirinn cha bu sgleo-uisge mor Amazon. 

Tha an eala ro phriseil-leam ’s ait bhi ga innseadh, 

Gu socrach na sineadn air dilinn nan tonn ; 

Gu ma maireann na daoine, chosd ruit am maoine, 

Dheanamh tioram a chaolais do gach aon tha san-flonn. 

Tha sruthan glan crasbhach a Gleannlochan a taomadh, 

Chumas biadh agus aodach ris gach aon tha san duthaich, 

Le innsramaide grinne-muillean cardaidh ’us mine — 

Cha’n eil aicheadh ’s a chruinn e le sireadh gu cul, 

Tha do ghibhtean do aireamh, aig a mhiad, is a dh ’fhas iad, 

On am san robh Adi am braig cuig-punnt, 

Is tu ’s aileagan dhuinne thar gach ait anns a chruinne, 

Chaidh ar ’n arach aunt uile, is c’um nach molamaid thu. 

[The foregoing song was composed by John Macnaughton, Achnafauld, 
Glenquaich, who died in the year 1866, aged 85. The following is a trans- 
lation by A. C. : — ] 


83 


SHEILA. 


PRAISE OF GLENQUAICH. 

Glen where the sheep are, Glenquaich, where live brave, hardy heroes, 
Thine equal is not to be found on this side of France. 

Thy mantle’s so precious of heather and mountain grass, 

With daisies so lovely abounding at all times. 

There is excellent health in that beautiful little glen, 

And cattle and riches are to be found in thy precincts. 

Venison off the hills, and fish from the loch, 

Are to be found in abundance, and as free as the water. 

Grey-hens and wild pigeons and grouse from the moors. 

And roebucks so agile roam over the hills ; 

The cuckoo and mavis in the beautiful woodlands, 

In the shelter of the mountains, sing music on each how. 

The red-deer and doe, with their frisky young offspring, 

And the stately antlered deer on the brow of the hill ; 

And the beautiful roes are at home in the thicket, 

Where the blithe feathered songsters are singing so sweetly. 

There are ptarmigan and grouse, and blue-headed wild ducks, 

And the white hare with her proud step is to be found on the 
hill, 

Sleeping securely in the seclusion of the hollow, 

Cuddled up very snugly, quite near to the rushes. 

When Lammas has come, and grouse-shooting begins. 

Lords and dukes with their double-barrelled guns 
Get a plenteous supply of powder and shot, 

And their joy and their sport is to come to the Glen. 

Delightful enjoyment’s to be found in thy valley, 

Though there was but only Loch Fraochie there. 

Oft with my line and a little brown fly 
Have I filled my withe with the beautiful trout. 

Thou art craggy and rugged, with thy beautiful brooks ; 
Herbaceous, extensive, rough, but right clean. 

Blae, wortle, bramble, and cloud berries, 

The choicest of fruits will grow in the Glen. 

Rank foggage will never be found on thy hills, 

But mountain grass and moss in the beautiful dells. 

Luxuriant heather grows on every moor, 

And the fragrance of honey is conveyed by the breeze. 

Untiringly flows the substantial river 

In its channel, a bed of the cleanest of pebbles, 

Winding cheerily on, free of mud and of dust, 

More precious in my eyes than the sweetest sugar 


AMONG THE FAULD FOLK. 


83 


Thy clear stream, like crystal, I love well to see ; 

Sweeter than red wine to me is thy taste. 

Thou’rt a lovelier stream by far than the Jordan, 

And no lie, though I say it, than the great Amazon. 

The graceful swan — I am proud to declare it — 

Is quietly reposing on thy watery wave. 

May those generous men flourish who gave so much money 
To bridge over the river for all in the Glen. 

A tributary stream from Glenlochan comes foaming, 

Which keeps food and clothing to each one in the place 
By the excellent machinery in the meal and wool mills. 

No better than these can be found anywhere. 

Thy gifts without number to all who will take them 
Since that time that Adam lived up in the Glen. 

Thou’rt a jewel more precious than all in the world— 

Why should we not praise thee, who nurtured us all ? 




CHAPTER IX. 

THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 

0 Love ! who bewailest 

The frailty of all things well, 

“Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your bier? 

Shelley. 

and down, to and fro the dining-room of Dalmore, 
strode Macdonald one August evening, and he had 
the appearance of a man in the keen throes of 
mental anguish. His brows were knit, and he 
clasped and unclasped his hands with a nervous haste as he 
paused now and again to listen with strained ear for any sound 
to come from upstairs. In the upper room, his wife, the darling 
of his heart, lay between life and death. Another hour, the 
physician had said, would decide the issue. He seemed to have 
been enduring this agonizing strain for hours; in reality, it 
was only minutes. They had sent him down. The doctor 
had implored him to stay in the dining-room ; for his restless, 
hurried pacing up and down the corridor was disturbing the 
sick-room. He had obeyed immediately. All he could do to 
help was to keep out of the way ; but oh, they seemed careless, 
indifferent to his agony, though it was the light of his life who 
was in such fearful peril. He heard a foot on the stair at 
length, and sprang to the door. The doctor, a grave, middle- 
aged man, of eminent skill, who had come all the way from 

84 




THE SHADO W OF EE A TH 85 

Edinburgh to attend at this crisis, motioned him to be silent, 
and, entering the room, shut the door. 

* It is over,* he said briefly ; ‘ the child is dead.’ 

4 What is the child to me ? How is my wife ? ’ 

‘ She cannot live,’ said the doctor briefly, and, turning his 
head away, strode over to the window, and stood with his back 
to the man, not caring to look upon his anguish. 

‘Not live! Why not?’ cried Macdonald. ‘What use are 
you if you can do nothing for her ? ’ 

‘Mr. Macdonald,’ said the physician gravely, almost sadly, 
‘we can only do what we can. We cannot work miracles. 
Nothing short of a miracle could save your wife’s life.’ 

Macdonald groaned aloud. The doctor was amazed to see 
such evidence of devoted love. He had not been greatly pre- 
possessed in favour of this rough Highland laird in the hours of 
the last evening which he had spent in his company. He had, 
indeed, wondered in what curious way he had wooed and won 
so sweet a wife. But there was no doubt about the genuineness 
of the man’s anguish. It was searing itself into every feature. 

‘Nothing can be done? ’ he said, calming himself by an effort, 
and speaking in a tone of anxious inquiry. 

‘Nothing. The strength is completely gone. Mrs. Macdonald 
has never been a very robust woman. No constitution to fall 
back upon.’ 

Such was the brief, callous explanation of the whole matter 
as viewed in the light of medical skill. Macdonald received it 
in silence. 

‘How long’ — He stopped short, unable to frame the 
question his eyes dumbly asked. 

‘Not long. You had better go up. She has asked for you 
several times.’ 

„ Without a word, Macdonald turned and marched out of the 
room. 

Then the physician stretched himself on the couch and shut 
his eyes. He had been up all night, and his work was done. 
He was not a heartless man ; but he had never married, and 
could not understand a husband’s feelings. He was, indeed, 
rather sceptical about them, as a rule. 


86 


SHEILA, 


The Laird met Anne, Sheila’s nurse-girl, on the stair. She 
was crying, with her apron at her eyes. He passed her by 
without a word, and strode on to the large, wide bed-chamber, 
with the long windows looking over to Amulree, where his wife 
had laid her down to die. 

The nurse heard his heavy foot in the corridor, and passed 
out as he went in. She only slipped into the adjoining room, 
to be at hand if required. Macdonald only saw one gleam of 
the perfectly colourless face on the white pillows, and, staggering 
blindly across the room, he fell on his knees at the bed-side 
and buried his face on his arms. His action shook the whole 
bed, and his wife opened her eyes. Then her hand went forth 
very feebly, for her strength was spent, and, reaching his head, 
lay there content. In his deep, terrible agony, he was un- 
conscious of that light, loving touch. 

‘ Graham,’ she said at last, in a voiceless whisper, ‘ Graham, 
look up ; there are some things to say.’ 

He flung up his head, and his eyes dwelt upon her face 
lovingly, yearningly, with a look which might have drawn her 
back to life and health. It told of intense, undying, unutterable 
love. She had all his affection, for until he met her it had 
been lavished on none. Ellen Macleod was his only living 
relative, and she had not sought or won any of his love. 

‘It is to be a fearful trial, Graham,’ whispered the dying wife 
feebly. ‘Try to bear it. We have been so happy. I — I thank 
you for all’ — 

‘ Hush, hush, Edith ! don’t torture me ! ’ he cried hoarsely. 

‘ I have only known what life is since you came to Dalmore. 
Oh, wife, live — live for my sake!’ 

‘ I would if I could,’ she whispered, and her faint smile was 
very sweet. ‘ But I must go. We cannot understand. Some 
day it will be made plain, and it is not for ever.’ 

Her hopeful words found no echo in his heart. Ah ! in 
death’s dark hour it is not easy to find comfort, even in a living 
hope. It sometimes seems as if our day had set in utter 
darkness. 

The silence which followed was broken by the hasty patter of 
small feet in the corridor; the door was opened by a quick, 


THE SHADO W OF BE A TH 87 

impulsive hand, and Sheila, with a quick, sobbing cry, sprang 
upon the bed. 

4 Oh, mamma, mamma ! they would not let me come ! ' she 
cried, as if her little heart would break. 4 What is it? you are 
so white. Are you very ill, dear mamma? Is that why papa 
is crying ? ’ 

The mother had no strength to reply. With a last effort, 
she lifted the child’s hand and tried to place it round Mac- 
donald’s neck. 

‘Kiss mamma, darling. Be good, love God, and care for 
papa,’ she whispered slowly and with difficulty. 4 Graham, take 
care of Sheila, and don’t let Ellen Macleod come near her.’ 

Even in death the shadow Ellen Macleod had cast on Edith’s 
married life lay chilly on her heart. 

Macdonald heard these words as in a dream. He seemed to 
know no more until they told him gently his wife was dead. 
Then he became conscious of a childish hand clinging tearfully 
about his neck, and, gathering himself up, he took the child to 
his heart, and turned away from the room without a backward 
glance. 

• •••••• 

Ellen Macleod was sitting at the drawing-room window at 
Shonnen, busy, as usual, with some knitting. On the little 
grassy slope before the house Fergus was lying at full length, 
with Colin beside him. Colin divided his time between Dalmore 
and Shonnen. To him it had appeared at first an extraordinary 
thing why the family should be separated. The dog really 
belonged to Fergus, his uncle having given him to the boy 
when he brought him home, a prize puppy, one day from the 
show at Inverness. But Ellen Macleod had declined to give 
him house-room at Shonnen; so Colin slept at Dalmore, and 
only visited the Lodge when he wearied for a sight of his 
young master. 

Fergus had an open book before him, but his thoughts were 
far enough from study. He was thinking that it wanted but 
two days to the 4 Twelfth,’ and wondering whether Uncle 
Graham would let him handle a gun this year, as he had 
promised. It was life to him to be out of doors. Do what 


88 


SHEILA, 


they would, they would never make a student of him. Ellen 
Macleod knew this right well, but the knowledge did not make 
her waver in her decision. An heir was expected at Dal more, 
so her last hope was extinguished. 

‘Fergus, isn’t that Jessie Mackenzie running up the road?’ 
she asked, putting her head out of the open window, and 
pointing along towards Amulree. 

‘Yes, mother ; what’s she flying like that for? ’ asked Fergus, 
turning on his side, and shading his eyes from the glow of the 
sunset. 

‘I can’t tell; it is most extraordinary. She only went an 
errand to the inn for me.’ 

They were not long kept in suspense. The girl came hurry- 
ing up to the Lodge, in by the back entrance, and straight 
to the dining-room door, and opened it without knocking. 
Through the open window Fergus heard quite plainly every 
word she spoke. 

‘ Oh, ma’am, Mrs. Macdonald’s dead 1 ’ 

‘What?’ 

Ellen Macleod sprang to her feet, and her face flushed all over. 

‘ Quite true, ma’am ; at twenty minutes past six ; an’ the 
baby, a son, is dead too. Oh ! oh 1 what a day for Dalmore ! ’ 
and the warm-hearted girl wrung her hands in token of her 
distress. 

‘Jessie Mackenzie, the thing is impossible! Mrs. Macdonald 
was alive and well, out in the garden, I was told, no later than 
yesterday.* 

‘Ah, but that’s not to say she’s alive this day. Oh, it’s too 
true, ma’am. Word came down from Dalmore to Macpherson, 
and he’s driving the doctor in to Dunkeld to catch the train.’ 

‘ Dead ! ’ Ellen Macleod turned away, and, approaching the 
open window, stood there in stony silence. She saw Fergus, 
with Colin at his heels, already crossing the Braan by the 
stepping-stones he had rolled down himself before the Lodge to 
make a quick cut to Dalmore. She knew where the boy was 
going. She pictured him even entering the house, while she 
repeated to herself the one word — dead ! The woman who had 
supplanted her had not long enjoyed the place she had usurped. 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


89 


Dead ! That bright, sweet, gracious woman, whose girlish 
beauty had made many wonder at Macdonald’s luck. Dead ! 
It was an awful thought. Her hard, proud mouth quivered, 
not with grief, for she felt none, but with the sheer violence of 
the physical and mental shock. Meanwhile, Fergus was run- 
ning with all his might up to Dalmore. There was nobody 
about the outhouses, and when he got round to the front 
entrance he found the door wide open. As he stepped into 
the hall he was struck by the strange brooding silence in the 
house. He started when the clock struck eight. Colin had 
his tail between his legs, and was suspiciously sniffing the air. 
Suddenly, without any warning, he gave vent to a long, mournful 
howl, which made Fergus shiver, and brought two servants 
hurrying up from the kitchen to see what it meant. 

‘It’s only Colin, Christina,’ said the boy, with a faint, sickly 
smile ; and, taking him by the collar, he dragged him out to the 
stable and shut him in. 

‘Is it true that my uncle’s wife is dead, Hamish ?’ he asked 
the stable-boy, who was lounging at the coach-house door with 
his hands in his pockets. 

Hamish nodded stolidly ; and Fergus went away round to the 
front door again, and entered the house. He did not know 
what he wanted, or what made him stay. He could not believe 
that Aunt Edith, who only a few days ago had stopped her 
carriage on the road to lean out and kiss him, could be lying 
cold and still, as he remembered seeing his father lie at the 
manse of Meiklemore. He wanted to see his Uncle Graham or 
Sheila, just to make sure that this terrible thing had really 
happened. He looked into the dining-room, but it was empty. 
The door of his uncle’s own room on the opposite side of the 
corridor was wide open, and there was nobody in it. With 
noiseless step and bated breath, Fergus crept upstairs to the 
drawing-room. He heard the sound of whispering voices and 
hurrying feet on the upper floor, but nobody came to disturb 
him. The drawing-room door was a little ajar, and when he 
looked in, he saw crouched up on the deerskin rug a little figure 
in a crumpled white frock. It was Sheila, poor motherless 
lamb ! fast asleep, with the big tears lying wet on her white 

8 


9 o 


SHEILA. 


cheeks, and fringing her long brown lashes. It was past 
her bed-time, but they had forgotten all about her; while she, 
poor child ! had forgotten her sorrow in the deep slumber of 
childhood. A lump rose in the boy’s throat, and he turned 
away. Not given much to tears, his eyes were full at sight of 
Sheila. Just as he slipped away downstairs, he met Mrs. 
Cameron, the housekeeper, who looked surprised to see him. 

‘ Where have ye come from, Maister Fergus? * she asked, in a 
whisper. ‘ This is a sad, sad day for Dalmore. Will you come 
up and see our sweet leddy ? She’s like a angel in her sleep.’ 

The boy shivered, but there was a fascination in the 
thought; He could not really believe that Aunt Edith was 
dead unless his own eyes convinced him. So he nodded, and 
followed the housekeeper upstairs once more. Their work 
was done in the chamber of death. Loving hands had per- 
formed the last service on earth for the beloved mistress of 
Dalmore, and when Fergus stole softly, fearfully almost, into 
the room behind the servant, he was conscious of a curious 
peace which fell upon him. The blinds were drawn, but the 
sunshine she had loved stole through, and made a mellow 
radiance in the room. They had removed from the room 
everything which could suggest the brief, sharp struggle which 
had snapped the thread of life, and there she lay, white, calm, 
peaceful, with her hands folded, and a sprig of white heather 
on her breast. The face was uncovered, and it seemed to 
Fergus that she looked as if she had been asleep; there 
was even a faint smile on the sweet mouth. She had left a 
blessed memory behind, even in the heart of the boy to whom 
her smile and her motherly kindness had been like the wine of 
life. If Ellen Macleod had but known what was passing in her 
son’s heart at that moment, she would have been jealous of her 
rival even in death. But that was a thing Fergus Macleod 
never spoke of until years after, and it was to one who shared 
with him the regret that a life so precious should have been 
so prematurely ended. 

‘That will do, thank you, Mrs. Cameron,’ he said gently. 

1 Would you let me have a bit of that heather just to keep, that 
little bit touching her hand?’ 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


9i 


The housekeeper sobbed aloud, as, with reverent hand, she 
broke the little spray from the stem and gave it into the boy’s 
hand. His grief was not noisy, but she saw that it was 
profound. As Fergus Macleod went downstairs he kissed the 
sprig of white heather, and in that kiss a vow was hid. What 
it was we may not yet know, but it made a man of our hero, 
and filled him with a manly resolve. 

He did not go back to the drawing-room. Young though 
he was, he felt that sleep was merciful to Sheila. There would 
be plenty of time to-morrow for her to cry her heart out anew 
for what she had lost. The sun had set when he went out of 
doors again, and the sky beyond Glenquaich was a wonder of 
glorious loveliness. There seemed to be a solemn hush in the 
air, but there was nothing sad or melancholy to add to the 
natural grief. Nay, it was. as if the Angel of Death, in his swift 
passage, had left an abiding peace on Dalmore. Fergus went 
to the stable for Colin, and turned his face down the hill. But 
the dog would not follow. He rushed to and fro, whining 
uneasily, and finally set off round by the stable and up through 
the firs towards the crest of Crom Creagh. Fergus had the 
curiosity to follow him, not being in any special hurry to go 
back to Shonnen. He felt, though he could not express or 
understand it, that his mother would break the spell of peace 
which lingered about Dalmore, and that she would fret him 
and make him miserable about his aunt. He was only a child, 
but experience was teaching him. He had visions and percep- 
tions far beyond his years. He could even weigh motives in 
the balance, and discriminate between right and wrong, justice 
and injustice with marvellous precision. God’s spirit touched 
his heart. But for the wholesome influence of Sheila and her 
Christian mother, he must have grown up an unnatural, unlove- 
able being. For Sheila was his guardian angel. Her gentle 
spirit, so pure and sensitive to every thing rude, held his in re- 
straint. Often did he hear from her lips the Gospel lessons which 
she learned from her mother, and these helped him. Following 
on, with glowing heart, after fleet-footed Colin, Fergus came upon 
a sight which made him suddenly burst into tears. There was 
the solitary figure of his Uncle Graham, sitting under the 


9 2 


SHEILA. 


frowning crest of Crom Creagh, with his head deep buried in 
his hands, fighting his lone, silent battle where no eye but 
God’s could see him. But the faithful dog, with a keenness of 
intuition which seemed more than instinct, had found him out, 
and now lay at his feet with his head on his knees, whining 
piteously, with his almost human eyes fixed upon the bowed 
head. 

Fergus crept up to his uncle’s side, laid his arm round his 
neck, and whispered brokenly, — 

‘Oh, Uncle Graham, don’t cry! We shall see Aunt Edith 
again.’ 

A shudder ran through Graham Macdonald’s stalwart frame, 
and a deep groan escaped his lips. He moved his hand, and it 
touched Colin’s head. He never spoke, but patted the faithful 
collie, and then looked up at Fergus with a strange, melancholy 
smile. 

* Ay, Fergus lad,’ was all he said ; and then his eye wandered 
away beyond the roof of Dalmore to the sweet valley of Glen- 
quaich, where the loch lay gemmed with the ruddy blush of 
the sunset on its breast. It was a picture she had loved, and 
never again would her eyes rest upon it. It had lost its beauty 
for him. From that day the world was a changed world for 
Macdonald of Dalmore. 




CHAPTER X. 

ESTRANGED. 

Go ! Darken not, by alien voice and look, 
The place made sacred by her memory 1 


T was all over. The Lady of Dalmore had been 
borne to her rest at Shian by the strong arms of 
those who loved her, and laid down on the green 
hillside within sight of the silver loch, while Blind 
Rob's pipes played the mournful notes of ‘The Land o’ the 
Leal/ It was a great gathering — a ‘beautifu* buryin’,’ the 
Fauld wives said to each other, as they sobbed over the 
untimely end of the sweet Lady of Dalmore. It was as if 
nature mourned with her human creatures, for a dreary, wet 
mist hung low over mountain, moor, and loch, like a pall. 

And when it was all over, Graham Macdonald went back to 
his dreary home, where a white-faced child in a black frock 
was wandering desolately through the house, crying for the 
mother that would never come again. 

From the upper window at Shonnen, Ellen Macleod watched 
the funeral train leave Dalmore and wend its way along by the 
Achnafauld road towards Shian. But the intervening distance 
was too wide to permit her to distinguish the different carriages 
and equipages which made up the long, imposing train. It was 
a great gathering, for even in the few short months Edith 

83 



94 


SHEILA . 


Macdonald had reigned in Dalmore she had made for herself 
many friends. Fergus was very wet when he returned to 
Shonnen late in the afternoon, for the mist- wraiths had drooped 
their wings lower and lower, until they too dropped tears for 
the Lady of Dalmore. After he had changed his dress and 
come to the dining-room, his mother found him absent and 
uncommunicative. 

4 It was a great burying, Fergus,’ she said. 4 1 could not 
make out the coaches. Who were all there ? * 

4 1 don’t know, mother. It was a great crowd.’ 

4 Who let down the coffin, then ? You can surely tell 
that.’ 

4 Uncle Graham at the head, mother, and I was at the foot, 
beside Sir Douglas Murray. Lord D unloch was at one side, 
and General Macpherson at the other. I don’t know the 
rest.’ 

4 What ministers had you at the house ? ’ 

4 1 don’t know them, mother, except Mr. Macfarlane. There 
were others there, I think,’ said the boy wearily, for the 
questioning hurt him. He had been sufficiently saddened by 
the event of the day. He could not bear to discuss every 
trifling element in it, as his mother evidently desired. She was 
consumed with curiosity — had, indeed, felt a kind of surprised 
chagrin at the great turn-out of well-known people at her 
sister-in-law’s burying. 

4 Were there any ladies at the house ? ’ 

4 Only Lady Ailsa Murray.’ 

4 Did you hear anything about any arrangements? Is the 
little girl to go to Murrayshaugh ? * 

‘Sheila? Oh, I don’t think so. I hope not,’ said Fergus 
quickly. 4 Uncle Graham won’t let her, I am sure. She 
sat on his knee all the time of the service in the dining- 
room.’ 

Dinner was served just then, and the subject was laid aside. 
But Ellen Macleod pondered certain things in her mind for 
the rest of that day. The violence of the shock the sudden 
death had given her had worn off, and she had felt a strange 


ESTRANGED. 


95 


thrill that very afternoon when the funeral train passed by; 
for the interloper was gone, and there was nothing now to stand 
between Fergus Macleod and Dalmore. She had already 
settled in her own mind that the child Sheila would return to 
the Murrays ; for of course she had not the shadow of a claim 
to expect a home at Dalmore. And, after a time, when the 
way was smoothed, and past differences between her brother 
and herself healed by a little diplomacy on her part, she 
pictured herself and Fergus reinstalled at Dalmore. 

It had been a trial of no ordinary kind for her proud spirit 
to stoop to the obscurity of Shonnen Lodge. She had not 
spoken to Macdonald for months, but she had no doubt that he 
would feel the need of her help at this crisis. 

Between the death and the burying, however, no message 
had come from Dalmore — not even a formal notification of the 
event — neither was she asked up to the house for the service of 
the funeral day. She knew that Lady Ailsa had come up the 
day after Mrs. Macdonald’s death, and had not returned to 
Murrayshaugh. So she attributed the lack of attention shown 
to herself to the officious interference of Lady Murray, and 
resolved to bide her time until Dalmore should be restored to 
solitude. A few more days passed by, and as no message came 
from Dalmore, Ellen Macleod made up her mind to go up and 
find out for herself how matters stood. She had no means of 
knowing whether her brother was alone, or whether Lady 
Murray still remained, and her curiosity could no longer be 
restrained. 

Fergus had gone off for a long day’s fishing on the loch ; so, 
early in the afternoon, Ellen Macleod left Shonnen, and, crossing 
over by Fergus’s stepping-stones, walked slowly up to Dalmore. 
She had not crossed the Girron Brig for eleven months, since 
the day she had left Dalmore, a week before her brother’s 
marriage. She was not a sentimental woman, and she felt no 
thrill of feeling as she entered upon the familiar carriage-way. 
Her interest in Dalmore was of a very practical kind, chiefly 
made up of pride and greed. 

But she did think, when she reached the tableland and turned 


9 6 


SHEILA. 


into the avenue gate, that the place had never looked so bonnie. 
It had never been kept in such condition in her day. There 
was not a weed nor a bare spot on the smooth gravel, and the 
turf was closely shaven, and looked like finest velvet. Edith 
had planted some Dijon rose-trees before the door, and they had 
taken kindly to the soil, and were covered with bloom and bud. 
On either side of the door were two huge terra-cotta vases 
filled with white heather, a mass of delicate bloom. Wherever 
Edith Macdonald was, she gathered pretty things about her, and 
she had loved her new home with a loving pride, and found 
delight in its adornment. As for Macdonald, though he did 
not understand all she did, he knew that never had the house 
been so pleasant to live in. Ah ! it had been blessed by the 
sunshine of a sweet woman’s presence only long enough to make 
the desolation more awful to bear. 

These frivolities about the outside of Dalmore did not please 
Ellen Macleod. ‘ Any cottar can cover his walls with roses,’ 
she said to herself, thinking they detracted from the dignity 
of Dalmore. She hesitated at the open door, not knowing 
why she should hesitate. Her hand even was on the bell to 
announce her presence ; but, with a short laugh, she hastily 
recovered herself, and walked in. Why should she crave 
admission to Dalmore ? She knew where she would be likely 
to find her brother, but she elected to seek her way to the 
drawing-room, possibly to see what changes the new wife had 
wrought there. She scarcely knew the room, though the 
furnishings were the same ; but the things were all shifted 
from the places they had occupied for a hundred years or more, 
and there were some pert, new-fangled little chairs and tables 
standing in every odd corner, and so many plants and cut 
flowers that it was more like a greenhouse than the sober 
reception-room at Dalmore. The faded moreen curtains were 
all removed from the windows, and in their place hangings of 
some dainty Indian muslin, tied back with broad bands of 
bright yellow ribbon, swayed to and fro in the gentle autumn 
wind. But, worst of all, there was a fine new piano, a semi- 
grand, with a beautifully inlaid ebony case, open, as the poor 


ESTRANGED. 


97 


lady had left it, with her music scattered about, and a piece 
even on the rack above the keys. 

Ellen Macleod had the curiosity to go forward and look at 
the maker’s name, and when she saw it was an Erard she 
frowned, knowing what it must have cost. 

< Oh, what a fool he must have been, when he allowed all 
this ! ’ she muttered to herself, as she took a final survey of the 
room ere she left it, though she did not know it, for the last 
time. 4 I’ll sweep away all that flimsy nonsense, and send back 
the plants to their proper place. I hope she hasn’t torn up the 
good moreen curtains, that cost a guinea a yard if they cost a 
penny.’ 

She drew the door behind her, and, sweeping majestically 
downstairs, made her way to the library door. 

In the hall Anne Ross met her, and stared in blank amaze- 
ment. But Mrs. Macleod, without deigning to notice her, 
turned the door-handle of the library door, and marched in. 
Macdonald was sitting at his escritoire, with his back to the 
door. 

At the first glance his sister was struck by his bent shoulders 
and the greyness of his hair. From behind he looked like an 
old man. 

She had advanced into the room before he turned his head. 
When he did look round, he rose at once, pushed his chair to 
one side, and looked her straight in the face. There was neither 
recognition nor friendliness in that look. 

4 Well,’ he said curtly, 4 what do you want?’ 

The brief, keen question, the icy coldness of his manner, and 
the flash in his deep-set eye, were slightly disconcerting to Ellen 
MacJeod, though she was not a timid woman. 

4 You needn’t snap my head off, Macdonald,’ she said, with 
admirable coolness, and sitting down as she spoke. 4 I’ve come 
to talk matters over with you.’ 

4 What matters ? ’ 

4 Family affairs, of course. I was sorry to hear of your loss, 
though you may not believe it.’ 

A slight, very slight, smile, which had nothing pleasant in it, 

9 


9 8 


SHEILA. 


curled Macdonald’s straight upper lip. It was all the answer or 
thanks she received. 4 1 have no family affairs to discuss with 
you, Ellen/ he said briefly. 4 So you have had your walk in 
vain/ 

4 You have not been very civil to me at this time, Macdonald/ 
said Ellen Macleod, determined to take a high hand or none. 

4 1 say nothing about not receiving any notice of the event, or 
about the slight put upon me by your asking a stranger to 
dispense your hospitalities at this time. I have nothing against 
Lady Murray ; I know her to be a kind friend both in sickness 
and health ; but whatever difference was between us, Macdonald, 
my place was to be at Dalmore on Friday/ 

Macdonald’s brow darkened, his lips twitched, and his nostrils 
dilated with the passion he was trying to hold and curb. It 
was her memory which helped him in this moment of keen 
trial. 

4 Ellen/ he said, and his voice shook with the very violence 
of the effort he was making to restrain his anger, 4 1 wish to 
have no words with you, and I cannot conceive for what 
reason you should, have forced yourself upon me at this time. 
You had better go quickly away back to Shonnen. I am 
quite capable of managing my own affairs without your 
interference/ 

But Ellen Macleod had no such intention. She had been so 
accustomed in the past to her brother’s fits of anger and to his 
use of strong language, that his moderate speech and apparent 
calmness completely deceived her. 

4 1 don’t want to interfere with your management of your 
affairs. I only want to know something of your plans. I 
suppose the child will go back to the Murrays?* 

4 What child ? ’ 

4 Your wife’s, the little girl Murray. Her father’s people 
will be going to take her ? ’ 

4 What is that to you ? ’ 

4 Oh, nothing much, of course. If you are going to keep her 
for a while, of course I have no business, and I’ll do my duty 
by her/ 


ESTRANGED. 


99 


* You will ? * 

‘Yes. Don’t be a fool, Macdonald. You cannot be con- 
templating anything so absurd as to live here alone when I am 
alone at Shonnen. The sooner we slip back into the old way 
the better. It will be in your interest as well as mine/ 

‘I am very much obliged to you, but it will be better for us 
both, now that we are apart, to keep so,’ he said quietly, though 
he was tempted to express himself much more strongly. ‘If 
any good feeling has prompted you to come here to-day, 1 
thank you for it, and I wish you good-day.’ 

Ellen Macleod rose to her feet. Amazement, indignation, 
incredulity possessed her. 

‘ Do you mean to say I am not to come back to Dalmore, 
Macdonald ; that the place is to be at the mercy of servants ? 
You don’t know what you are doing. They’ll devour your 
substance, an.d rob you right and left. Have you taken leave 
of your senses ? ’ 

‘No, but you evidently have/ he said angrily. ‘Do you 
know, that for you to come here after — after all that is past’ 
(he dared not mention his wife’s name), ‘ expecting to be even 
civilly spoken to, is a height of presumption I scarcely imagined 
even you to be capable of? While I am in my right mind, 
Ellen Macleod, you shall never enter this house as resident or 
guest, though you are my sister. You have never acted a 
sister’s part to me/ 

Ellen Macleod’s long thin lips grew pale with passion. Her 
hot Highland blood was up. She positively glared at the cold, 
calm countenance of her brother, as if she could have slain 
him where he stood. 

‘So this is what Edith Murray, with her sneaking ways, has 
done? I shall be hearing next that Dalmore is to go to her 
child 

‘ Hold your tongue ! How dare you take that name on your 
lips?’ thundered Macdonald, his face purple with righteous 
anger, his eyes flashing, and the veins on his forehead 
standing out like knotted cords. ‘The place she sanctified, 
and made a home such as it never was, and never will 


IOO 


SHEILA. 


be again, is desecrated with your presence. Get out of my 
sight, woman ! lest I forget myself, and lift my hand against 
you/ 

4 Well, I go, but I leave my curse upon you and Dalmore ! ’ 
she almost screamed ; for her anger had risen to white heat, and, 
gathering her skirts in her hand, she swept out of the room. 
As she slammed the door after her, a thrill of childish laughter 
came in through the open door, and, as she stepped into the 
hall, Sheila, with her hands full of wild flowers, came dancing 
in. She stopped short at sight of the tall, dark-browed woman, 
sweeping like a Nemesis through the hall. At sight of the 
sweet, innocent baby face uplifted in wonder upon her, an evil 
spirit seemed to enter into Ellen Macleod, and, lifting her hand, 
she gave the child a blow on her bare white shoulder, which 
made her scream out in terror and pain. Aunt Ailsa, who had 
been up Crom Creagh with her little pet, and had but lingered 
at the door to pick some dead buds from Edith’s rose-trees, 
appeared in the doorway, and saw the act. 

‘May God forgive you, Ellen Macleod ! ’ she said, her fair face 
flushing in shame and anger. 4 You are a cruel, wicked 
woman ! * 

Then she sprang forward, and gathered the bairn close to her 
sweet, motherly breast, and pressed her loving lips to the red 
mark Ellen Macleod’s cruel hand had made. Macdonald heard 
the scream, and came out into the hall just as Lady Ailsa had 
lifted Sheila in her arms. 

4 What is it ? * he asked ; and at sound of her father’s voice 
Sheila raised her tearful face, and pointed to her arm. 

4 Oh, papa! a black woman struck me. I am so frightened.’ 

Macdonald took the child in his arms, and bent his dark face 
over her. Ailsa Murray saw that his features were still work- 
ing convulsively, and that he seemed under the influence of 
strong feeling. She surmised that a stormy interview had just 
passed between the brother and sister, but her delicacy pre- 
vented her alluding to it. 

Macdonald himself broke the awkward silence. 

‘Edith bade me keep the bairn away from Ellen Macleod, 


ESTRANGED. 


IOI 


Ailsa/ he said ; ‘ and, God knows, she had need. She is a 
fearful woman.’ 

Lady Ailsa sighed, and followed Macdonald to the library. 
The occurrence had made an opportunity for her to speak 
concerning Sheila’s future. 

‘It is time I was home, Macdonald. My boys are wearying 
for me and for Sheila. She is expected at Murrayshaugh.* 

4 Is she ? 9 

Lady Ailsa fancied Macdonald’s arms tightened round the 
child, who clung to him with a confidence which had no fear 
in it. 

4 Sir Douglas and I have discussed the matter. We will 
adopt Sheila, and you know she will be like our own.’ 

4 You are very kind, but Sheila belongs to me.’ 

Lady Ailsa looked a little put out. 4 If there is any chance 
of your sister coming even occasionally to Dalmore, I am afraid 
I must insist on taking Sheila away,’ she said firmly. 4 1 can- 
not have her subjected — to — that.’ 

4 You need not be afraid. Ellen Macleod has set foot for 
the last time in Dalmore. Edith left the child to me, but if 
it will please you better, Sheila herself shall decide.’ 

He sat down, and placed Sheila on his knee. She was not 
much hurt, and her sobbing had ceased. 

4 Listen to me, bairn,’ he said. 4 Aunt Ailsa is going away 
home, and she wants to take you away to Murrayshaugh to 
live altogether.’ 

Sheila gravely nodded. 

‘You will have a great many advantages there, my bairn, 
for Aunt Ailsa loves you very much, and you would have 
your cousins to play with. Dalmore is a very dull place. 
There is only me.’ 

‘And Fergus/ put in Sheila promptly. ‘Do you want me 
to go away, papa ? ’ 

‘No, Sheila. I want you to choose for yourself/ was all 
he said, and would not tempt her even by one persuasive or 
endearing word. 

Sheila sat up, as if she felt the gravity of the moment. She 


102 


SHEILA. 


looked towards Aunt Ailsa, who was standing by the table, 
with a slightly expectant smile on her face. Then she looked 
at Macdonald’s grave, stern face, which was ploughed with the 
lines of grief, and as if some intuition told her who needed her 
most, she put her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his 
bread breast. 

Sheila’s choice was made. 





CHAPTER XI. 

A WILT PLOTTER. 

% 

No means too humble, road too steep, 

For when he cannot walk, he’ll creep. 

J. B. G. Selkirk. 

HE month of October came. Peter Crerar began 
the teaching in Achnafauld again, but Fergus 
Macleod was not sent to share the advantages of 
the Fauld school. Neither were the lessons at the 
manse renewed, and time hung heavily enough on his hands. 
The schools were all open in Perth for the winter session, and 
Ellen Macleod had quite determined that Fergus should go to 
Perth, but she could not surmount the difficulty of getting 
backward and forward to Shonnen. It was impossible the 
boy could walk the distance between Dunkeld and Amulree 
twice a day after the train had brought him from Perth; and 
she was in a dilemma. Donald, the pony, was still eating his 
head off in Dalmore stable, never out except when Sheila 
occasionally got on his back. All communication had ceased 
between Shonnen and Dalmore. After all the excitement and 
the stir of the mournful event was over, an unbroken stillness 
settled down on Dalmore. Ellen Macleod had never seen her 
brother since that fruitless visit to Dalmore, but she heard them 
say he was a changed man. He was seldom seen out of doors, 
and Jessie told her that the housemaid at Dalmore assured her 

103 



104 


SHEILA. 


the Laird seldom left the house. Many pitied the motherless 
little girl, left in the care of such a moody, miserable man ; 
but they might have spared their pity, for she was perfectly 
happy. Macdonald unbent only to her, and the two seemed to 
have come to a most perfect and beautiful understanding. She 
missed Fergus very much, it is true, and often spoke of him, but 
her father did not encourage her. For the time being there 
was a firm, fast barrier drawn betwixt Shonnen and Dalmore. 

Angus M‘Bean, always on the look - out, and cognisant 
of everything going on in the country-side, got to know of 
the strait Mrs. Macleod was in about her boy’s education, 
and made a nice little plan, which was to relieve her 
and be of ultimate benefit to himself. In the factor’s 
eyes Fergus Macleod was the future Laird of Dalmore, and, 
as such, a person of no mean importance. So, having laid 
his plan, Angus M‘Bean made bold to walk over to Shonnen, 
one fine, hard night, to have a little private talk with Mrs. 
Macleod. The factor was a very diplomatic man, and it was 
his policy never to quarrel with anybody. The cottars could 
not, with truth, say they had ever seen him in a passion, but 
he had a cold, pitiless way of getting the better of every one 
who argued with him, that they feared him quite as much as 
if he gave way to anger. Now, though Angus M‘Bean was 
employed in and supposed to be devoted to the Laird’s interests, 
it was to his ultimate advantage to keep on good terms with 
the lady at Shonnen, and therefore he determined to be of 
service to her in this difficulty if he could. 

‘ Good-evening, Mr. M‘Bean,’ said Ellen Macleod, greeting 
him very cordially, for it was a rare occurrence to see a face 
from the outer world in the solitude of Shonnen. ‘ I hope you 
are all well at Auchloy ? ’ 

‘All very well, thank you. How are you, Mr. Fergus? A 
big, tall gentleman he has grown of late, hasn’t he, ma’am ? ’ 

‘ There’s nothing to hinder his growth,’ said his mother. 
‘ Pull in the arm-chair for Mr. M‘Bean, Fergus, and go to your 
lessons. There is frost in the air to-night, surely ; it feels 
chilly.’ 


A WILY PLOTTER. 


I0 5 

4 Ay, it is taking in the roads already,* said M‘Bean, as he 
stretched out his hands to the cheerful tire. ‘We have long, 
cold winters in the strath.’ 

4 Cold enough,’ answered Mrs. Macleod, resuming her 
knitting. 4 Anything fresh about Auchloy or Achnafauld ? ’ 

‘Nothing in Auchloy, but there’s aye a stir in the Fauld,’ 
laughed the factor. 4 1 have come for a little talk with you, 
if you will kindly grant me the privilege, Mrs. Macleod.’ 

‘Surely. Take y'our books to the kitchen beside Jessie 
Mackenzie, Fergus, and stay till I bid you come back.’ 

Nothing loth — for he had no special regard for the factor — 
Fergus gathered up his books and retired. 

4 A fine, tall, handsome fellow,’ repeated Angus M‘Bean. 
4 He’ll be a man in no time. He is pursuing his studies at 
home, I see. Perhaps he did not get much advantage from 
Peter Crerar ? ’ 

4 Oh, he learned well enough at the Fauld school, but it 
could not go on, Mr. M‘Bean,’ said Ellen Macleod significantly, 
4 and he had spirit enough not to like it. It’s not a convenient 
place this for bringing up children in.’ 

4 That’s just what I feel. We’ve been positively in a fix 
about our own Angus,’ said the factor. 4 He hates Peter 
Crerar, and W’as learning nothing from him. We have made 
up our minds to send him to Perth Academy, and he goes down 
on Monday.’ 

4 And how are you to manage with him? He cannot come 
home every day,’ said Ellen Macleod, laying down her knitting, 
and looking with interest at the factor. 

6 Oh no, ma’am ; that would be impossible. He is to bide 
in Perth. We have taken lodgings for him with a respectable, 
genteel person, a widow woman who has come down in the 
world. And I made bold to come over to-night, to see if you 
would not consider whether the lads could not go together and 
share the lodging. They have always been very friendly,’ said 
the factor, stretching a point, for 4 Puddin” was always run- 
ning down Fergus Macleod at Auchloy. 4 Of course,’ added 
M'Bean modestly, 4 we feel that he would be greatly honoured 


io6 


SHEILA , . 


in having Mr. Fergus for a school companion, and if it is 
presumptuous on my part to make the suggestion, I ask your 
pardon. But I said to Mrs. M‘Bean, 44 Whatever may have 
happened, we still owe respect to Mrs. Macleod, and if we 
can be of service to her, it need not interfere with our duty in 
other quarters.”* 

4 You are a good man, and a kind friend, Angus M‘Bean, J 
said Ellen Macleod quickly, 4 and I shall gratefully accept your 
offer for my son. Although circumstances are changed with 
me, I am thankful to say it will not stint me to pay the half of 
the lodging, and one day I hope to repay your kindness in a 
more substantial way than by words of thanks.* 

4 Don’t speak of it, ma’am, I entreat you,* said M‘Bean 
effusively. 4 The kindness and the honour received are all on 
one side. So that is settled ; and, if quite convenient for you, 
I can drive Mr. Fergus, with his trunk, down with Angus on 
Monday afternoon. I am to go in to Perth to see them nicely 
settled, and if you would care to go, ma’am ’ — 

4 Oh no, thank you. I have the fullest confidence in you, 
Mr. M 4 Bean. You have relieved my mind of a heavy load. 
That I should have to say that the Laird of Dalmore has cast 
off the responsibility of his sister’s fatherless boy 1 * 

4 Ah well, ma’am, you see, when strangers step in, the 
consequences are always more or less disastrous,’ said M‘Bean 
sympathetically. 4 When the Laird honoured me with his 
confidence anent his marriage, I made bold, though respect- 
fully, as a servant should, to warn him against these conse- 
quences. But a wilful man must have his way.* 

It cost Angus M‘Bean no effort or qualm of conscience to tell 
a good, straightforward lie ; for the Laird had never alluded to 
his marriage to the factor even in the most distant way, and 
as to listening to his advice, had it been proffered, he might 
have knocked him into the Girron burn, provided it had been 
at hand. 

Ellen Macleod — shrewd, keen, clever woman though she was 
— was completely taken in by the smooth-tongued factor, whom 
even Fergus disliked and distrusted. 


A WILY PLOTTER. 


107 


1 The Laird seems to have made a hermit of himself since his 
wife’s death/ she said presently. ‘ He is not taking that 
interest in his affairs incumbent upon him/ 

‘No. I have said to my wife more than once that I would 
not be surprised to see a new laird in Dalmore before very 
long/ said M‘Bean cautiously, and keeping his eye furtively 
fixed on the face of the woman before him. 

She started visibly. 

‘ Is my brother ill in his health, Mr. M‘Bean ? In spite of his 
unbrotherly treatment of me, which I cannot think you are 
ignorant of, I have a sisterly interest in him. I pray you, tell 
me how he is/ 

‘ He has no positive ailment, except brooding over his loss. 
But we know what happens when a strong man gives up his 
interest out of doors, and sits perpetually in the house. You 
have not seen him of late, then ? ’ 

‘ No ; for Sabbath after Sabbath the Dalmore pew is empty, 
save for the child and her nurse/ said Ellen Macleod, com- 
pressing her thin lips till they were like a thread. 

Angus M‘Bean saw at once where the sore spot lay, and 
treasured it in his mind for future consideration. 

‘ He looks much older, then. You would scarcely know 
him. Forgive my presumption, but it is out of respect for 
the house I speak. It is a shame that Alastair Murray’s 
child should enjoy the privileges of Dalmore, while its rightful 
heir learns his lessons beside the kitchen fire in a place like 
this. ; 

Ellen Macleod’s colour rose hotly, and her lips twitched. 
It was such a relief to allude to the wrong which was eating 
her heart out, that she forgot her usual haughty pride, and 
spoke out freely to a servant. 

‘ Ay ; it is, as you say, a shame and a black disgrace ! ’ she 
said fiercely. ‘ But do you think that for this no punishment 
will fall on Dalmore ? Heaven is more just than men, so let 
that white-faced girl beware. And let. the Murrays watch 
themselves also, if they think to feather their nest from 
Dalmore/ 


io8 


SHEILA. 


4 It is a sad and difficult case, ma’am ; and though I am 
bound to do the Laird’s work outside, my sympathies and 
service are at your command/ said the factor impressively. 

4 There is no way whereby this child could be removed from 
Dal more ? ’ 

4 No ; but if Macdonald’s health is failing he must be watched, 
Angus M 4 Bean, or these vultures from Murray shaugh will get 
Dalmore among their fingers.* 

4 Oh no, Mrs. Macleod ; the Laird will never put Dalmore 
past your son.* 

4 Will he not ? I tell you he is fit enough to leave it to his 
wife’s child. He has been a fool ever since he married — a 
soft, silly fool ; and he worshipped her as no human being 
should worship another, and so, in righteous wrath, Heaven took 
her away. I am perfectly powerless, Angus M*Bean, so 
you must watch over the interest and the honour of Dalmore. 
And if my son ever comes to his own, you shall not be 
forgotten.’ 

4 1 am honoured by your confidence, ma’am. Rest assured it 
is not misplaced,’ said the factor, as he rose to his feet. 4 1 
hope, however, that the Laird will never do anything so un- 
befitting a Macdonald.’ 

Ellen Macleod shook her head. 

4 My confidence in him is destroyed/ she said. 4 Tell me, Mr. 
M‘Bean, how matters are on the estate. Jessie, my maid, tells 
me the cottars in the Fauld are grumbling a good deal.* 

4 True enough. They are an ill-conditioned set. Goodness 
knows what demands they’ll have at rent-day this year. 
Donald Macalpine wants a new smiddy, and the precentor a 
roof on his byre ; and that body, Janet Menzies, is to ask her 
rent down because she’s got Jock’s bairnies home. A pack of 
wolves, Mrs. Macleod. They’d tear Dalmore to pieces, and 
fight over its division. If I had my way, I’d clean out the 
whole clachan.’ 

4 That’ll never be/ said Ellen Macleod, shaking her head. 
4 Time sare indeed changed from what they were in my father, 
the old Laird’s time. They said he was a hard man, and yet 


A WILY PLOTTER. 


109 


there never was a grumble from a tenant in the place. I 
would like to ask the cottars in Achnafauld how they would 
like to pay tithes in kind over and above their rents, as they 
do in Shian and all up the glen to Rannoch. I think myself 
they need a harder hand than Macdonald’s on them. There 
must be money in the Fauld.’ 

4 Money ! Thousands of pounds, if there’s a penny. It’s 
an unholy greed that’s got possession of them, and I’m of 
your opinion, that the Laird’s too soft with them. I can tell 
you, Mrs. Macleod, I don’t eat the bread of ease. You’ll 
not hear a good word of me from one end of the glen to the 
other.’ 

With which remarkably true statement, delivered in a 
tone of injured but conscious virtue and innocence, Mr. 
Angus M k Bean took his leave, well pleased with his night’s 
mission. But he would need to go very warily, and not 
lose sight of his interest with Macdonald. There is always 
danger in the way of the man who tries to sit between two 
stools. 

So the difficulty about Fergus’s schooling was solved very 
satisfactorily — for his mother, at least. The boy himself 
received the first intimation of it from Puddin’, whom he met 
late on the Saturday afternoon on the Corrymuckloch road. 
Now that the fishing was over, Fergus wearied, and the weather 
was getting cold for Sheila, and so they kept tryst but seldom 
at the Girron Brig. The boy used to haunt the road below 
Dalmore, hoping for a sight of his uncle; but the familiar sight 
of graceful Mora and her stalwart rider was not often seen now 
about Amulree. 

Puddin’ was riding, but drew rein straight before Fergus, 
grinning broadly. 

4 So we’re gaun’ to Perth schule, you an’ me, on Monday,’ 
he said in the broad Scotch which sometimes vexed his father, 
who yearned after gentility. 

4 It’s a lie,’ said Fergus, with the plain, unvarnished candour 
of one boy to another. 

‘No, it’s no’. You ask yer mither. It’s the vera same 


no 


SHEILA. 


lodgin’s. It’s a’ settled,’ said Puddin’, grinning still. ‘They 
micht ha’e asked us whether or no’ first.’ 

‘ I don’t believe a word of it, Puddin’ M‘Bean ; and if it is 
true, I won’t go,’ said Fergus serenely, and went away whistling, 
with his hands in his pockets, thinking the joke was one of 
Puddin’s feeblest attempts. For they had been such bad 
friends at Achnafauld that the idea of occupying the same 
lodgings seemed the height of absurdity. Fergus passed on to 
the brig, stood by the parapet for a few minutes watching the 
steady flow of the burn, growing big with the first of the 
‘spates,’ and then, without thinking very much what he was 
doing, crossed over, and began to ascend the hill to Dalmore. 
I believe Dalmore was never a moment out of the laddie’s 
heart. He thought of it in his waking hours, and dreamed of 
it when he slept. He loved that place above anything in the 
world. He went on and on. Colin met him at the head of 
the approach with a joyous bark, and bounded before him into 
the house. Hearing the unusual noise, Tory took up the 
chorus in the drawing-room, and Sheila came running down 
to see what the commotion was. 

‘Oh, Fergus, Fergus! I am so glad to see you!’ she cried, 
her face all aglow with delight. ‘ Oh, come in, and I’ll 
tell papa. How nice it is to see you, Fergus 1 Come away 
in.’ 

She clasped her two hands through his arm, and looked up 
into his face with perfect adoration in her eyes. Dear bairns, 
how they loved each other! They knew nothing of jealousy, 
and hate, and dissension. Oh that they could remain ignorant 
of them for ever ! 

‘ It seems so long since T saw you, Fergus. Why don’t you 
come up? When I see Colin trotting over to Shonnen, I wish 
he could speak and tell you to come.’ 

‘ You never come down to the brig, though,’ said Fergus 
reproachfully. 

‘Aunt Ailsa was up, Fergus, and she told Anne Ross not to 
let me out when there was any wet on the grass, so I have just 
to play cattie and doggie with Tory in the drawing-room. 


A WILY PLOTTER. 


hi 


Tory is a very funny little dog, but I’d rather be out with 
you.’ 

* I should think so. Is Uncle Graham in ? * 

‘ Yes ; it will soon be tea-time. Papa always has tea with 
me, and then I have dinner with him. And is it true you are 
going away to school on Monday ? * 

4 1 never heard of it till this very day. Puddin’ M‘Bean told 
me. I met him at the brig just now. He says I’m to live in 
his lodgings,’ said Fergus laughingly. ‘Hulloa, Tory! He’s 
far bigger, Sheila, and far too fat. A lazy rascal, isn’t he?’ 

‘Oh no. Here’s papa. Isn’t it nice, papa? Fergus has 
come, and we’ll have tea together,’ said Sheila, running to 
meet Macdonald, and taking him by the hand. 

Fergus ran to meet his uncle, too, and was struck by 
his aged appearance and by the melancholy expression on his 
face. 

4 Well, Fergus, lad, glad to see you. I was saying to Sheila 
to-day you’d be up to say good-bye. So Puddin’ and you have 
buried past grievances, and are going to keep each other com- 
pany in Perth ? A very sensible arrangement. You can have 
a set-to when the lessons weary you.’ 

‘Uncle Graham,’ cried Fergus hotly, ‘I never heard a 
thing about it. I cant be going, or I would have known.’ 

But even as he spoke he remembered noticing a kind of 
extra work going on at Shonnen, and a great turning out and 
mending of clothes. 

‘May be not, boy. It was the factor who told me it 
was all arranged ; but surely your mother would have told 
you.* 

The boy’s face flushed, and he dashed away a bitter tear 
which started in his eye. Oh, but Ellen Macleod was making 
a grievous and terrible mistake. She was treating the boy as 
if he were a machine, a thing without feeling or desire, which 
she could move about at will. And yet she expected filial 
duty, filial affection, and respect in return. 

She frequently reminded Fergus of the scriptural injunction 
to children concerning their duty to their parents, but forgot 


1 1 2 


SHEILA . 


to take to her own soul, for her guiding, the corresponding 
injunction to parents. 

From the beginning her training of the boy was a mistake. 
She had the making or marring of a fine character in her 
hands. 

Let us pray it may not be completely and irretrievably 
marred. 




CHAPTER XIL 

FACTOR AND LAIRD. 

Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines. 

Young. 


’VE come up to see what I’m to say to these folks 
to-morrow, sir,’ said Angus M‘Bean to the Laird 
in the library at Dalmore. It was the 5th of 
December, and the snow lay two feet deep on the 
ground, and immense drifts stretched from side to side of 
exposed roads, which were level with the dry stone dykes. 
The 6th of December was the rent-day on Findowie and Dal- 
more. Angus M'Bean had quite settled in his mind what he 
was to say to the malcontents, but of course it behoved him 
to make the form of consulting the Laird. Macdonald had but 
a languid interest in these affairs. He was indeed a changed 
man, like one whose interest in life was dead. It lay buried 
with his love in the old graveyard at Shian. 

‘Oh, ay, some repairs they wanted. What are they?’ 
asked Macdonald, rousing himself up when the factor spoke. 
He was sitting, as he would sit for hours, by the fire, with his' 
elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 

‘Donald Macalpine wants a new smiddy, no less. He com- 
plains of the chimney — the smoke won’t go up. I bade him 
knock a brick out of the side. He says it’s dark, and I told 
him to knock some more out of the wall opposite the door.* 

10 




114 


SHEILA. 


4 A new smiddy!’ said the Laird, with a grim smile. ‘Less 
will have to serve Donald, I doubt, in these hard times. 
Could we not repair the place for him? * 

4 No, it would be a sinful waste of money. The smiddy is 
as good as ever it was. You can go along and see it for your- 
self. I’ll tell you what I think. Donald M‘Glashan has made 
such a bonnie penny in the smiddy that he’s not caring about 
it now. Four pound ten for the croft and the smiddy is far 
too little, Laird, according as they are paying now. The rents 
are rising instead of falling up by Killin and Rannoch.’ 

4 So I’m told. Well, you can say to Donald if he isn’t 
pleased he can quit,’ said the Laird. 4 What next ? * 

4 Ewan M‘Fadyen’s byre. Is he to get a new roof on it? 
There’s only a bit hole at the east end where the snow can 
blow through, because lie was too lazy to thaik it in the back 
end. As I said to him, 44 Is the Laird to pay money out of his 
pocket for your idle habits? ” He maun just divot it until next 
year,’ said the factor, without giving the Laird time to put in 
a word. 4 He has a fine crop of oats this year, and his hay 
was about the best ; then he has five pounds from the kirk, an’ 
yet he’s aye seeking. We’ll let him girn. Jenny Menzies has 
got two bairns, her brother’s weans from Glasgow, and wants 
her rent down a pound for their keep. What do you think 
of that for Jenny, Laird ? * 

4 Jenny’s gleg,’ said the Laird, with an absent smile. 4 1 heard 
of the bairns. The lad is a trifle queer, and not strong. No 
doubt she’ll have her own to do with the bairns. Take the 
pound off. What next?* 

4 Sir, I don’t think it would be right to take it off 
Jenny Menzies* rent. It’s very moderate, and she makes 
a heap by her spinning. The bairns will be more a help 
than a hinder, and if we favour her the rest will have cause to 
grumble.’ 

4 Take the pound off,’ repeated the Laird quietly. 4 What’s 

next ? * 

‘Rob Macnaughton is for a roof on Rory Macalpine’s old 
house for him to set up another loom in. That shows how 
the wind blows. They count nothing on the land, Laird, and 


FACTOR AND LAIRD. 


XI S 

use your houses for their own ends. If stocking-weaving pays 
so well, let them build houses for themselves, say 1/ 

‘ Certainly, certainly/ said the Laird quickly. 1 1 hope 
that’s all, M‘Bean. These grumblings weary me. It is only 
of late they seem to have arisen. What is their cause ? * 

‘Just what I’ve often said, sir: the folk have gotten into 
idle, fushionless ways, and they’d take the land for nothing and 
not be content. It would be far less bother and better pay 
among big farms. At the rent-time, Laird, I could wish the 
wind would rise and blaw the Fauld to the bottom o’ Loch 
Fraochie. It’s all toil and little thanks for them. Findowie’s 
not half the trouble.’ 

‘ Well, well, you’re among the grumblers, too, Angus,’ said 
the Laird. ‘But your job pays you very well. Any back 
rents to-morrow ? ’ 

‘Ay, that’s another thing. What am I to say to James 
Stewart at Turrich ? He’s nine pounds back, and three for 
this tack makes twelve. I don’t expect he’ll pay the half of it.’ 

‘Turrich! Oh, that’s the man with the sickly wife and ten 
bairns. Well, money can’t be very plentiful with him, Angus.’ 

‘ Far too many of them, sir. If he’d set them off to service, 
there would be fewer mouths to feed. And he’s wanting more 
land, too.- He says if he had Little Turrich croft and another 
horse, he could make it pay. But it’s all nonsense. He wants 
Little Turrich for Rob, the ne’er-do-weel son of his that wants 
to marry Mrs. M‘Bean’s bit servant lass. A bonnie pair they’d 
make, an’ a bonnie bungle o’ Little Turrich, as I told them. 
But we’ll see what old Jamie brings the morn. I think that’s 
a’, Laird.’ 

‘ An’ plenty ; too much, Angus. How’s the lad getting on 
at the school ? ’ 

‘ Very well, but he can’t keep up with Mr. Fergus, as is 
hardly to be expected,’ said the factor smoothly. 

‘ Then he can’t be doing much, for my nephew is no scholar. 
But do they ’gree ? ’ asked the Laird dryly. 

‘ I never hear anything about it if they don’t,’ said the 
factor, with a laugh. ‘ Laddies are aye bickering. Is little 
Miss Murray very well ? * 


SHEILA . 


ii 6 

‘ Miss Macdonald is,’ returned tlie Laird, with emphasis. 
‘She is Miss Macdonald now, M 4 Bean, you can tell the folk.’ 

Angus M‘Bean could only nod his head in silent acknow- 
ledgment of the Laird’s speech. But he made a note of it for 
future consideration, and for communication to Ellen Macleod. 
It would be a fine tit-bit for her. Angus M‘Bean began to 
wonder if he had done wisely in paying so much attention at 
Shonnen. If necessary, he could easily shy off; in the mean- 
time, he would wait and see. 

‘I hope the lady who has come to look after Miss Mac- 
donald’s education is giving satisfaction?’ he said inquiringly. 

‘ Oh yes ; the child is fond of her, and it keeps her from 
wearying.’ 

‘ Mrs. M‘Bean would be pleased to see Miss Macdonald and 
her governess at Auchloy. It would be a nice walk on a fine 
day,’ said the factor, as he rose to go. 

‘They confine themselves to Dalmore and to the post road, 
I think; but I’ll tell them. There are refreshments on the 
table, Angus; help yourself.’ 

‘Thank you, sir; your very good health, and Miss Mac- 
donald’s, and prosperity to Dalmore,’ said the factor as he 
took a drink. 

‘Thank you. Good-night. Look up after the business is 
done,’ said the Laird. 

‘ I’ll be sure to do that. I wish it was over,’ said the factor, 
and he was perfectly sincere in what he said. Rent-day was 
never a very pleasant one for Angus M‘Bean, for he was 
generally obliged to listen to some very plain statements of 
fact concerning himself. Left alone, Macdonald returned to 
his solitary musing, and sfjt long by the fire, indeed until it 
became smouldering ashes in the grate, brooding over his lost 
happiness, and making the weight of his sorrow a thousand 
times heavier. He had no one to rouse him out of himself. 
Sheila was but a child, and did not fully understand why the 
shadow should dwell so continuously on her father’s brow. 
Her bounding step, sweet smile, and bright, bairnly ways never 
failed to rouse him at times ; but now that the governess had 
come to Dalmore, the two were a little separated. Lady Ailsa 


FACTOR AND LAIRD . 


117 


had suggested, and indeed insisted that if Sheila were to remain 
at Dalmore, a young lady who could be governess and com- 
panion to the solitary child must be engaged. Macdonald did 
not demur, and the minister’s daughter from Logie Murray 
came to Dalmore. She was a bright, happy creature, to whom 
Sheila took kindly at once. So the winter promised well for 
the bairn ; but with the short dreary days and long solitary 
evenings, when the wintry winds howled fiercely round on the 
exposed headland on which Dalmore stood, the shadows seemed 
to fall yet more darkly down upon Macdonald’s heart. 

Angus M‘Bean, the factor, had an office in his house at 
Auchloy, where the. estate business was transacted and the 
rents received. Hitherto the rents had been punctually paid, 
and that without much grumbling, though bit by bit the 
privileges were being wrested from the cottars in Achnafauld. 
It was done very gradually, little by little, but it was the thin 
edge of the wedge which Angus M k Bean meant to drive home. 
First, the fishing on the loch had been preserved ; a small thing 
in itself, and not of much importance, seeing the cottars did not 
greatly patronize the sport, but it served as a straw to show 
how the wind blew. Then a fence would be removed which 
would take off a bit of the common pasture and enclose- it with 
the factor’s land; and then it became an impossibility to get 
any repairs at the hands of the Laird. They paid well for their 
crofts,— about double in proportion per acre to what Angus 
M‘Bean paid for Auchloy, — and it might have been thought it 
was only a fair thing for the Laird to uphold the buildings in 
the clachan. Certainly it had been the custom for years for the 
cottars to keep up their meagre steadings, for which purpose 
they were welcome to obtain wood free of charge from the 
Laird’s saw-mill on the Quaich. But the mill was at the very 
head of the glen, a very sore road, and the few horses in the 
Fauld had enough to do on the land without carting wood. 

So the steadings, in spite of thatching and patching, were 
falling into disreputable disrepair. 

Angus M‘Bean, as we have seen, went through the form of 
consulting the Laird, whose remarks he twisted and turned into 
meanings to suit his own ends. 


n8 


SHEILA. 


About twelve o’clock next day there was a gathering in the 
smiddy to discuss matters before the men should proceed to the 
factor’s office. There would be about a dozen men, conspicuous 
among them Ewan the precentor, dressed in a rusty black 
coat, and big Sandy Maclean, in close conference with Donald 
Macalpine the smith, who was holding forth at a great rate 
about the condition of the smiddy. 

The dipper was passing freely, and already Ewan M‘Fadyen 
was getting conspicuously talkative and cheery. 

‘ God bless my soul, lads ! ’ he said ; ‘ wha’s Angus M‘Bean 
that we should feel our equilibrium vibrate in his presence? 
If he doesn’t think fit to accept the honorarium we offer, let 
him go and hide his diminished head in the loch.’ 

‘That wad suit you, Ewan: ye’re unco drouthy this 
mornin’,* said Rob Macnaughton the stocking- weaver, dryly. 
He was a long, gaunt, strange-looking man, with a shaggy 
black beard, and a gleaming, restless black eye. He did not 
often appear in any of the smiddy conclaves ; but. as he had 
a grievance and a request also to lay before the factor when 
he paid his rent, he had stepped over to see what was 
going on. 

‘ Listen to the immortal breathings of the Bard of Achnafauld,’ 
said Ewan, in his most grandiloquent style. 

When Ewan had become excited, even moderately, his 
eloquence and verbosity became even yet more remarkable than 
usual. 

‘ Haud yer blethers, Ewan, an’ hear what’s gaun on,’ said 
Donald Macalpine hastily. ‘ We’re discussin’ what’s to be done 
if none of us gets any satisfaction from the Laird. Look at the 
smiddy, lads, and say what ye think of its condition. There’s 
that muckle draught in’t that it wad take a’ the peat mosses in 
the Glen to keep the furnace gaun. I’m sure it’s but reasonable 
to ask something done/ 

‘The powers that be will doubtless have another version of 
the story,’ said Ewan M‘Fadyen. ‘ If they won’t repair the 
east end of my byre, we’ll need to gie Meg quarters in the 
kitchen. Well, Janet Menzies, my woman, what for should ye 
enter into the solemn assemblage of the elders ? * he added, as 


FACTOR AND LAIRD. 


119 

the doorway was darkened by a little wizened woman in a 
short gown and 4 soo-backit ’ mutch. 

4 It’s after twel’ ; are ye no’ gaun west the glen ? ’ she asked, 
in a shrill voice. ‘Angus M 4 Bean ’ll be gaspin’ for his siller. 
His haund’s like a muekle wame, aye gantin’.* 

4 Hae ye gotten your pickle to help the hole, Jenny?* asked 
Sandy Maclean slyly. For answer Jenny turned out the old 
stocking-foot she held in her hand, and showed three very dirty 
pound notes. 

4 That’s every penny he gets frae me,’ she said shrilly. 4 It 
was Laird Macdonald’s wyte that Jock Menzies had to leave 
the Fauld, and me wi’ the land to manage.’ 

4 But it wasna the Laird’s wyte that Jock married a wife, 
Janet,’ said Sandy, who, in his big, slow, lumbering fashion, 
enjoyed a joke. 

4 No ; but if Jock had bidden in the Fauld there wad hae 
neither been wife nor weans, an’ I’d tell Laird Macdonald that 
gin I saw him.* 

There was something almost uncanny in the old creature’s 
gesture and look as she sharply replied to Sandy’s mild chaffing. 
She was supposed not to be quite right, and most folk pitied 
the poor bairns who had been sent to her care. Jock, her 
brother, had been a queer callant also, and such an inveterate 
poacher, that the glen had got too hot for him. Some of the 
gentlemen at the lodge in the shooting season had got him a 
place in Glasgow, in which city he took to himself a wife. But 
he had never done much good there, and his drinking habits 
shortened his days. His wife died before him, and the orphans 
were left in Jenny’s care. This woman was a thorn in the 
flesh of Angus MfBean. It is not too much to say that a 
mortal enmity existed between them. The factor feared her wild 
temper and her unbridled tongue. When she was in a passion 
she had a knack of recalling certain unpleasant incidents 
connected with his youth, which he preferred to forget. He 
was just watching, eager for a chance to get her evicted from 
the Fauld, but as yet had been unable to find any excuse. 

That was a busy morning at Auchloy. Peter Crerar had 
lately been employed occasionally to help the factor with his 


120 


SHEILA. 


books, and of course was in attendance on the rent-day. Very 
early poor Jamie Stewart came over from Turrich, anxious to 
hear the Laird’s decision about Little Turrich. It was a matter 
of moment to him to keep his eldest son at home, but the lad 
was anxious to marry, and it was impossible to divide the 
croft. He had seven pounds in his pocket, which he presented 
to Angus M‘Bean with a trembling hand. 

4 Five pounds short, Jamie, that means a stirk or two ewes 
for the Laird,’ said Angus pleasantly. 4 Ye might just have 
had the beastie sold ; it would have saved trouble.’ 

4 1 canna sell a beastie the noo, Mr. M 4 Bean; the Laird maun 
just wait,’ said Jamie quietly. 4 What said he about Little 
Turrich ? ’ 

4 Do ye think the Laird’s a fool, Jamie Stewart ? If ye canna 
pay for five acres, how could ye pay for seven? Give him 
his receipt for seven pounds, Peter Crerar. There’s somebody 
else waiting at the door.’ 

4 But did ye explain aboot the horse and what Bob wantit ? ’ 
asked Jamie Stewart. 

‘The Laird has mair to think of than your affairs, Jamie 
Stewart. They would gie him but little satisfaction. Awa’ 
back to Turrich, and I’ll be owre some day to wale a beastie 
for the rent.’ 

A shadow came upon the old man’s face, but he was of a 
meek disposition, and retired without a word. As he went 
out, Janet Menzies pushed herself into the room, and, with a 
curious leer at Angus M 4 Bean, drew out her three pound- 
notes. 

4 There ye are, my man ; there’s yer siller, an’ muckle guid 
may it dae ye,’ she said, in her shrill voice, which was hateful 
to Angus M 4 Bean. 

‘Three pounds, Janet? where’s the other one? The Laird 
has not let down your rent, that I’m aware of.’ 

4 Ye’ll get nae mair frae me. Did ye tell him that I had 
gotten Jock’s bairns to keep?’ 

4 1 did ; but we can’t keep them for you, so out wi’ your 
other pound, my woman, without more ado.’ 

4 No’ anither penny, an’ its no’ wi’ my will ye got that. What 


FACTOR AND LAIRD. 


I 2 I 


I want to ken is, what you pay for Auchloy, Angus M‘Bean, 
and hoo many bittocks ye are thievin’ frae the Fauld? ’ 

Angus M‘Bean swore at the woman, and she smiled a quiet 
smile to herself ; nothing pleased her better than to see the 
factor angered. 

‘ My woman, ye’ll pay for yer impertinence. D’ye ken wha 
ye’re speakin’ to ? The Laird shall ken o’d, an’ if ye bide anither 
year in the Fauld, I’m mistaken. Grie the auld crone her receipt, 
Peter, an’ let her take her ill tongue outside. Come in, Ewan 
M‘Fadyen. I see ye keekin’ through the keyhole wi’ yer skelly 
e’e. Come in an’ pit doon yer bawbees. No, if ye want yer 
byre to keep out the snaw ye maun divot it, the Laird says. 
Ye needna preach ; I haena time to listen to yer maunderin’s. 
Ye’re owre weel aff, an’ dinna ken o’ it.’ 

With such grim pleasantries the factor received and dismissed 
the tenants. Every request was refused, every grievance 
scouted and laughed at. 

And he laid it all at the Laird’s door, putting words in his 
mouth he had never uttered. 

So the seeds of disunion were sown, and Achnafauld was 
set against Dalmore. 

II 




CHAPTER XIII. 

FORESHADOWINGS. 

Man’s inhumanity to man 
Makes countless thousands mourn. 

Burns. 

you know where Malcolm is, Katie ?’ 

‘Malcolm! Oh, Mr Fergus, is it you? He is 
at the potatoes. Shall I run and tell him you 
want him ? * asked Kate Menzies, blushing all over 
at the unexpected sight of Fergus Macleod in the doorway, 
when her plump round arms were bare to the elbow, preparatory 
to beginning the weekly baking. 

* That’s the Shonnen lad’s voice. What for should he no* 
cross my door-stane. Has his lare made him ower prood to 
sit doon by a Fauld ingle?’ cried a shrill, uncanny voice from 
the depths of a big chair by the hearthside. 

Jenny Menzies had lost the power of arm and limb through 
rheumatics, but her tongue was just as ready, and her temper 
as fiery as ever. Although she was so helpless, and so utterly 
dependent on her niece, she was not in the least grateful for 
any service rendered by the girl’s willing hands. When too 
angry to speak, she would throw whatever came handiest at 
her — peats oftener than anything, for her chair stood close by 
the peat bin. 

‘Eh, is that you, Jenny?’ cried Fergus, with a laugh. ‘I 

22a 




FORESHADO WINGS. 


123 


thought you might be sleeping. How is the world using you, 
eh?’ 

As he spoke, the big handsome lad stalked into the little kitchen 
and took the old woman’s hand in a kindly grip, which pleased 
her well, though it hurt her poor swollen joints not a little. 

4 Eh, call ant, ye hae grown in spite o’ yer lare an’ yer toon’s 
meat. Ech, what a year or twa can dae for brats o’ bairns.’ 

It was true, a few years had indeed wrought wondrous 
changes in the young folk who make the chief interest of this 
history. We left Katie Menzies a bairn, and we find her, when 
we cross the bridge of these few years, a comely, womanly girl 
of fifteen. She had a woman’s work to do, and a woman’s care 
and forethought to exercise, which had doubtless given her a 
maturity of appearance and manner she might not otherwise 
have attained so early. She was a sweet-looking young maiden, 
with a clear, healthy-hued face, a bright, speaking blue eye, and 
a happy smile. Her dress, a striped skirt and a light calico 
shortgown, with a white handkerchief folded round her sweet 
throat and crossed on her bosom, was peculiarly and modestly 
becoming. It was no wonder they called Katie Menzies the 
bonniest lass in Achnafauld. As for Fergus Macleod, at sixteen 
he had almost attained a man’s height, though his loose figure 
had yet to fill up and make breadth proportionate to the length. 
His face was not so ruddy as it had been when he lived 
constantly in the open air, but its hue was perfectly healthy, 
and his clear grey eyes bright and undimmed as of yore. 

4 Sit down upon a seat, Fergus Macleod, if ye be the same 
laddie ye aye were,’ said Jenny Menzies brusquely. 4 Sit down, 
I say, and gie’s the news. I ken naething. My limmers o’ 
bairns never tell a thing, and now that I'm laid aside the 
neebor folk think I’m deid.’ 

Katie turned to her baking with a twinkle in her happy eye, 
which Fergus caught and smiled too. He looked at Katie with 
great interest. How bonnie and sweet she was ! He wondered 
he had not thought of it before. 

4 So ye are gaun awa’ to the college, I hear,’ pursued Jenny. 

4 What are they to mak’ o’ ye ? ’ 

4 1 don’t know. I am going to the college just now to please 


124 


SHEILA. 


my mother. And I’ll have to do something for my living,’ 
said Fergus, with a slight cloud on his brow, for the sore 
subject was a sore subject still. 

‘ An’ what’s to come o’ Dalmore, eh ? The auld Laird’s sair 
failed, they say ; never oot the hoose.’ 

‘ So I hear. I have not seen my uncle for a long time,’ said 
Fergus hastily. ‘I can’t sit a long time, Jenny, for I’ve to go 
round the Fauld, and I want a talk with Malcolm.’ 

‘ An’ when are ye gaun away ? ’ 

‘On Monday.’ 

‘ An’ when did ye come ? ’ 

* Yesterday.’ 

‘ They dinna gie ye muckle rest for the soles o’ yer feet. Is 
the factor’s son gaun wi’ ye? ’ 

‘ He is going to college, but his classes will be different. 
We’ll not see much of each other.’ 

‘ He’s idled aboot a’ the simmer, an’ played a heap o’ mischief 
in the Fauld. Malcolm fair hates him. Oor Malky’s maybe 
no’ a’ there, but he has ta’en the size o’ Puddin’ M‘Bean,’ said 
the old woman, with a kind of grim delight. ‘ D’ye ken wha’s 
Laird o’ Dalmore now, Master Fergus?’ 

‘No,’ said Fergus, looking slightly surprised. 

‘Him up at Auchloy. Eh, lad, it’s time ye were at hame 
to look efter what should be yer ain. If ye are ower lang, 
there’ll no’ be muckle to divide. An’ there’s a young ane 
cornin’ up that’ll be waur nor the auld ane. If ye are a true 
Macdonald, lad, ye’ll see to it that the factorship disna pass 
frae father to son. We ken a’ aboot it here. Gang to Donald 
M‘Glashan, or Rob Macnaughton, or Dugald M‘Tavish. They’ll 
a’ gie ye the same story.’ 

‘It is surely not so bad as that, Jenny,’ said Fergus, trying 
to speak cheerfully, as he rose to his feet. ‘ I can’t believe that 
my uncle is not able to manage his own affairs. Good-day to 
you. Good-day. Katie, come out, will you, and let me see 
where Malcolm is?’ 

Katie wiped her hands and followed him out to the 
door. 

‘ Katie,’ said Fergus soberly, ‘ Fve heard a great deal about 


FORESHADO WINGS . 


125 

Angus M 4 Bean’s way of going on. Is it really true that he 
oppresses the folk in the Fauld ? ’ 

Tears started in Katie’s eyes. ‘Ay, it’s quite true, Master 
Fergus. I wondered, indeed, that auntie didna say more. 
He’s been very hard on us. He seems to hate us, and wants 
us out of the place. Mr. Fergus, I’m perfectly feared whiles 
at Malcolm. Oh, try and speak to him. You know he is a 
queer laddie, and when he gets into his awfu’ passions, if he 
were to see the factor or Angus, he micht kill them. I whiles 
wish we had bidden in Glasca, though I like the Fauld. It’s 
grand to live in sic a bonnie place, among sic kind neebors.’ 

4 I’ll try what I can do, Katie,’ said Fergus, with deeply 
clouding brow, for he felt himself very helpless. He was 
growing up, and understood many things which had puzzled 
him in boyhood. He loved the old folk in the Fauld, for they 
had known him since he was a bairn. 

‘Have ye seen Miss Sheila this time, Mr. Fergus?’ asked 
Katie. 4 She is to go away to the boarding-school soon, she 
says.’ 

‘No, I have not seen her. Does she come often to the 
Fauld ? ’ 

4 Oh yes ; twice or thrice a week. She is so kind to auntie. 
If it werena for what she brings, Mr. Fergus, we couldna live. 
We had to put away the sheep and the cow too, for we had 
no grass.’ 

4 What’s become of the hill. Is the pasture not as good as 
it once was ? ’ 

4 Ay, but we daurna put a beast on it. Oh, it’s hard times, 
Mr. Fergus. But there’s auntie cryin’. Speak to Malky, will 
ye, an’ bid him be more patient. I whiles think that he 
angers Mr. M 4 Bean more than he need.’ 

4 I’ll try, Katie ; don’t be vexed,’ said Fergus, and shook her 
by the hand, for they had been bairns together at the Fauld 
School, and nobody could help liking Katie. 

He hesitated just a moment ; desire drew him to the 
smith’s shop, but he knew he would get the information he 
wanted without ado from Rob Macnaughton, the stocking- 
weaver. So he ran across the road and lifted the sneck of 


126 


SHEILA. 


Rob’s door. All the other doors in the Fauld stood open 
summer and winter in the daytime, but Rob’s was aye shut. 
The loom seemed to be silent, and when he pushed open the 
kitchen door, there was Rob, with his little table before the 
fire, taking his solitary tea. He was not in any way changed, 
unless the big, gaunt, shuffling figure seemed to have grown 
more loose and thin-looking ; but there was not a grey hair in 
his head, nor any sign of approaching age on his grim, stern 
face. 

‘It’s you,’ he said, fixing his keen eye on Fergus, but 
without any sign of recognition. ‘If ye be cornin’ in, shut 
the door.’ 

‘Well, Rcfo, how are you? Well enough, I see. I’m not 
forgetting my old friends. I have only been at Shonnen for 
two days, and here I am.’ 

‘ So I see ; ye’ve grown. Ye are a man now, Fergus 
Macleod. Sit down if ye are to bide a bit.’ 

‘ Yes. I’m going to bide a bit. I’ve come to you seeking 
authentic information,’ he said, in his quick, impetuous fashion. 
‘ Rob, is it true that times are getting hard for the Fauld folk? 
Tell me all about it.’ 

A slow, bitter smile came upon Rob Macnaughton’s grim 
face. He took up his saucer and drank all his tea, and then 
lifted the table back to the wall. 

‘ I’ve gi’en up parritch,’ he said laconically ; ‘ when ye’ve to 
buy milk, tea’s cheaper, and it takes less time to make. So 
ye’ve been hearing some rumblings o’ the thunder that some- 
times shakes the clachan ? ’ 

‘I’ve been at Jenny Menzies’s. Katie says they’re positively 
ill off*. Rob, did my uncle give orders that their beasts were 
not to go on the hill ? ’ 

‘There’s no hill now, lad. It’s fenced in as the lands of 
Auchloy. There’s a new laird. But, as ye’ve been away, 
ye’ve maybe not heard of the change.’ 

‘ It’s abominable, perfectly abominable ! ’ cried the lad hotly. 
‘If you knew my uncle as I know him, Rob, you would be 
perfectly mad at Angus M‘Bean. My uncle is so kind, a 
kinder man never breathed, only, of course, he is just. If he 


FORESHAD O WINGS. 


127 


knew the true state of affairs, he would set them right instantly. 
I’ll go to him myself and tell him how you are oppressed.’ 

‘ I misdoubt not your word, Fergus, for I remember Laird 
Macdonald as a just man, though not generous. It is only 
justice we want. Justice would enable us to live. It has 
come to this, Fergus Macleod, that the spoiler and the 
oppressors have turned the hearts of the people to gall within 
them, and that they can stand it no more. The day is coming, 
nay, it is drawing very near, when the snell winds shall whistle 
through the rent roofs of Achnafauld, and where there has 
been the hum of peace and plenty, with the music of bairns’ 
voices, there shall be but the cryin’ o’ the burn an’ the soughin’ 
o’ the birks, and the homes where peace and neighbourly 
kindness dwelt shall become the haunt of the cattle and the 
deer. 

‘ Some day this house, Fergus Macleod, where my forebears 
dwelt long before there was a Macdonald set foot upon the soil, 
will be a rent ruin, a cattle-pen, maybe, for the stock of the 
Laird of Auchloy. But let him beware. Let him not think 
he stands firm. For the tears and the curses of the people he 
hath so grievously oppressed shall ascend to heaven, and hath 
not the Lord, whom mayhap we have forgotten in our 
prosperity, said, “ Vengeance is mine, I will repay ” ? ’ 

The poet’s eye shone with the peculiar fire which Fergus 
remembered used to awe him in boyhood, when Rob would forget 
his presence, and half chant, half recite his weird Gaelic ballads 
and the superstitious legends in which he delighted. 

‘You are poetical, but not practical, Rob,’ said the lad 
quietly. ‘ Have the Fauld folk thought of anything to do in 
self-defence ? I wish you’d tell me everything. I may be able 
to do something to help you.’ 

Rob laid the points of his fingers together in a peculiar way, 
and looked over them at the lad with a touch of compassion. 

‘You? Lad, ye are too open and guileless to fight the devil. 
My advice to you is, steer clear of Angus M‘Bean. The only 
thing that would save the Fauld would be if the Laird were to 
die now, and leave the place to you. It is yours by right. 
She is a sweet bairn, they say, that comes down from Dalmore ; 


128 


SHEILA. 


but she is not of your blood. The place is yours by right, but 
it never will be yours, Fergus Macleod, as long as that ill man 
bides in the glen/ 

‘If I had the power I’d make short work of him,’ said 
Fergus, and he clenched his hands ; for the interests of his 
heart — nay, of his life — were bound up in the place and the 
people among whom his boyhood had been spent. No mortal 
knew what it had been for the lad to dwell away from these 
hills and glens, and to give his attention to books. He had 
gained more sense now, however ; and, knowing that education 
and knowledge are powers which have no equal, he had ceased 
to kick over the traces, and was quiet in scholastic harness. 
But meanwhile, oh, what things were happening in the glen ! 

‘Do you mind Jamie Stewart, that was in Turrich, Fergus ?’ 

‘Yes, fine/ 

‘Well, in the spring-time there — ye ken what the March 
blasts are up Glenquaich — he was put out of Turrich — 
evicted, I think, is the new-fangled word they used. He was 
back in his rent about ten pounds, I think; but there was stuff 
and beasts to pay it over and above. And the wife had to be 
carried out, bed and all, and laid down at the dyke-side above 
the drift. What think ye o’ that, Fergus Macleod ?’ 

Tears — tears of anger and burning indignation — stood in the 
boy’s honest eyes. 

‘ And what became of them, Rob ? ’ 

‘The Laird of Garrows gave them a house and a croft, and 
there they are biding in the meantime till things are settled. 
But I would lay this thing before you, Fergus Macleod, for ye 
are a just, fair-minded lad, wi’ mair nor a man’s sense. Two 
hundred years ago — ay, and more — the Stewarts abode in 
Turrich, and farmed their own lands. At the *45 Turrich went 
out to fight wi’ Charlie, and died on Culloden, and then the 
place was confiscated, they called it, but we are honest folk, 
and speak in an honest tongue. So Macdonald that was in 
Dalmore, a Royalist, though he bore one of the best Highland 
names, seized upon Turrich an* a’ the lands up the glen. An’ 
syne, when the blast blew past, and Turrich’s wife an’ bairns 
came back to the glen, they found their home stolen from them, 


FORESHADO WINGS. 


129 


and that they had no habitation on the face of the earth. But 
for the love they bore to the place of their birth, they took it 
upon Macdonald’s terms, and became tillers of their own soil 
once more, but paying tithes in money and kind for their 
lease.’ 

4 Is all that true, Rob ? ’ 

‘ True ? Ay, and that’s but one case. Not that we’re 
grumbling. We are willing to pay a fair rent if we can but 
make a living,’ said Rob, growing more practical. ‘At one 
time that was easy, for the Laird meddled not with us. I 
know not, Fergus, why Angus M‘Bean should have sic an ill- 
will at the place and the folk among whom he was born. His 
father was a fine man ; but a good man may have an ill son. 
There are folk, Fergus, who make good servants, but canna 
rule. It sweeps them off their feet. Auchloy is one. But he 
has a long account to settle wi’ the Almighty at the last day. 
I’d rather be Jamie Stewart, landless and friendless, than 
Angus M‘Bean of Auchloy.’ 

Fergus Macleod hid his face in his hands. These things 
weighed upon his heart. Sometimes he was tempted to doubt 
the verv existence of God when he saw such gross injustice done 
his creatures. But better thoughts prevailed, and he saw that it 
was only human greed, unsubdued by divine love, and unre- 
strained by divine law, that wrought the mischief; and Fergus 
lifted his troubled heart in silent prayer, and still had faith that 
God heard him, and in some way would cause the right to pre- 
vail. Could that faith have always anchored his soul ? But we 
shall see. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

MALCOLM. 

A rude, wild soul, 

To whom the whispering breeze, 

The silent hills, the rushing tide, 

Spoke with strange voices. 

ES my uncle never come to the Fauld now, Rob?’ 
Fergus asked at length. 

‘No. They say he’s sore spent, and cannot live 
long. He lost his spirit, lad, when his lady died.’ 

* And what do you think will be the end of it all ? ’ said the 
boy, with a burst of wistful earnestness very touching to 
behold. 

‘The end will be as I said. The four winds of heaven will 
sweep through the Fauld, and will not be heard by the ears of 
living mortal in the place/ said Rob. ‘ Ye mind of Peter 
Crerar, the schoolmaster, that was clerk, too, to the factor?’ 

‘ How could I have forgotten Peter, Rob, when I was at his 
school for six months ? ’ 

‘ Well, he and his brother David and his uncle, lang John 
M‘Fadyen that was in Easter Lynmore, went away in the 
spring across the seas to Upper Canada; and what think ye was 
their errand, lad ? ’ 

Fergus shook his head, his eyes fixed on Rob with the most 
intense interest. 



130 




MALCOLM. 


131 

4 It was to see wliat manner of country it is : to view the 
land, as the Israelites viewed the land of Canaan ; and no later 
gone than yesterday letters came to the Fauld, and it’s a grand 
report. So there’ll be a heap of spinning and weaving in the 
Fauld this winter, Fergus Macleod.’ 

4 What for ? ’ 

‘ To prepare against the day when the folk shall rise in a 
body and go forth from their own land to a land they know not 
and have never seen. But it couldna well be harder till them 
than this has been.’ 

‘ You don’t mean to say, Rob Macnaughton, that they’re 
going to emigrate?’ 

4 Yes ; after due consideration, that is what decision we have 
arrived at, and it is a wise one. I shall not myself leave 
Achnafauld, because I can aye get bite and sup, and I have 
some siller laid by. But for the young men and the fathers of 
families it is a wise plan, Fergus, that they should leave before 
they are cleared out, as they certainly will be, by the corbie at 
Auchloy, if they bide muckle langer in the place.’ 

‘ Does my uncle know of this ? ’ 

4 1 know not, Fergus. Auchloy himself has an inkling of it.’ 

‘And who are going, Rob? Tell me quick. Oh, I can 
hardly believe it ! ’ 

4 There’s all the Stewarts, and the Crerars, and Ewan 
M‘Fadyen. Of Donald Macalpine I’m not sure, for his 
business is good, and cannot be meddled with by Angus 
M‘Bean. And there’s big Sandy Maclean an’ a’ his folks, and 
wee Sandy Maclean down by at Wester Coila, an’ a heap more 
whose names I canna mind.’ 

‘Are they all from Dalmore folk, Rob? Are there no dis- 
contents among Shian or Garrows cottars ? ’ 

‘Not that I’ve heard of. Cameron of Garrows and Campbell 
of Shian deal straight with their own people, and there is not 
the lying, evil tongue of Angus M‘Bean to come between. 
Fergus Macleod, if ever you come to your own, or have name 
and lands in your hand, take warning by what has happened 
here among the folk ye have kent all your days. Let no man 
come between you and your folk, and then there will be 


i3 2 


SHEILA . 


justice done. Are ye for off? I misdoubt, laddie, I have laid 
a heavy sorrow on your young heart, but bear it lightly, as it is 
not of your own doing. If ye come in by another day, I’ll let 
ye hear my lilt about the desolation of the Fauld. It has been 
wrung from me by the vexations of the folk. They think me 
thrawn, and say my heart is like the nether millstane, but they 
dinna ken that the strong currents rin wi’ nae muckle din, and 
that I’m wae, wae for Aclinafauld, an’ the leal hearts that have 
kent no other hame/ 

4 Fob/ said Fergus, turning back at the door, 4 do you ever 
see or speak with Malcolm Menzies? Katie says she is anxious 
about him/ 

4 She may be; the lad has a fine spirit that’s easy fretted. 
I’ve whiles a dwam about him mysel’. There's a mortal hatred 
between Angus M 4 Bean and him/ 

‘Are the Menzies not among the intending emigrants?* 

Rob shook his head. 

4 Jenny Menzies couldna sail the seas with her stiff joints now, 
and the bairns maun bide behind wi’ her. They say Malcolm 
Menzies is daft, Fergus ; but dinna you believe it. He has the 
music of the winds an’ of the runnin’ waters in his soul. The 
puir chield is a poet, an’ disna ken what a’ the clangour an’ the 
jumble means. He’ll find his weird yet, Fergus, an’ there will 
be peace of mind when the music that’s in him finds its voice, 
Fergus. He’ll thraw nae mair wi’ Angus M‘Bean, and vex his 
sister’s soul, for he’ll hae that within him that’ll make him at 
peace with all men.’ 

4 Does he come in by to you, Rob ? ’ 

4 Whiles, an’ sits an’ greets an* greets as if he were a lass 
bairn instead of a muckle haflin wi’ the strength o’ twa men. 
Then I pit the bolt in the door, an’ gie him my rhymes an’ 
sangs or the lad’s fair beside himsel’ wi’ delight. Daft! na, 
there’s no’ muckle daftness about Malcolm Menzies. He’ll 
maybe surprise us a’ some day.’ 

4 I’ll go, then, Rob, and look out for Malcolm. I’d like well 
to see him before I go to the college/ 

4 Does the thought of the gown an’ the pulpit no’ set up your 
birse now as it did, Fergus ? ’ 


MALCOLM. 


i33 


‘ I’ll never be a minister, Rob, though I should cast peats for 
my living. But I have more sense than that, and I know that 
without learning a man can do but little in the world. My 
mother knows my mind is made up, but she is anxious for me 
to take my degree in arts at Edinburgh/ 

‘Ye are a sensible lad, but ye promised weel as a bairn/ said 
Rob, looking into the fine, open, honest countenance of the boy 
with a strange, softened glance. ‘ Gin ye were but Laird o’ 
Findowie an* Dalmore, there would be less talk about the ferlies 
across the sea. Guid e’en, Fergus, an* may every blessing 
guide ye/ 

Fergus nodded and strode off, while Rob put his bolt in the 
door and went back to his loom. Fergus Macleod wondered 
when he heard folk speak of Rob Macnaughton as a dull, sour, 
morose being, with whom it was impossible to converse. 
Children’s hands could open the locked door of Rob’s heart, and 
push it back on its rusty hinges, and he whom the child can 
love is never bad. 

Fergus ran over the stepping-stones, never looking back, 
though he heard the smith’s jolly voice calling him. He knew 
that, if they inveigled him in, Donald and Mary between them 
would keep him an hour at the fireside. Behind Janet Menzies’s 
cottage he saw Malcolm working alone in the potato drills, 
though it* was so dark he could not possibly see to do his work 
well. Fergus gave a loud, shrill whistle, and stood up on a 
little hillock at the burn-side, so that Malcolm might see him. 
The tall, loosely-hung ^figure gave a start and stood up, looking 
round to see where the whistle came from. Catching sight of 
Fergus, Malcolm put down his graip and creel, and came slowly 
up the drill. He was an odd figure in his rough homespun, 
his trouser legs warped round with straw ropes to keep out the 
mud, and his big, sprawling feet encased in heavy clogs. The 
remains of a red Tam o’ Shanter hung on to a tuft of hair on his 
crown, leaving the big forehead bare. His large melancholy 
eyes had a somewhat wandering look in them, and there was a 
weak look about the mouth. He was not a robust lad, but 
when it pleased him, or when he was roused into a passion, he 
could exhibit a terrible strength. His appearance was singular 


134 


SHEILA. 


in the extreme. It was, indeed, difficult to believe that he was 
bonnie Katie’s brother ; but he was very dear to Katie, and she 
was the apple of Malcolm’s eye. His love for her was indeed 
more like the worship of a lover than the sober affection of a 
brother. He was pitied in the Fauld, but not much taken 
notice of except by Rob Macnaughton, who had found the key 
to that half-wild, sensitive, passionate nature. 

A gleam of pleased recognition came in his face when he 
came near to Fergus Macleod, for whom he had a strong regard. 
Fergus had never laughed at or teased the poor, shy, queer lad, 
whom everybody else treated as a half-wit, and Malcolm Menzies 
was capable of intense gratitude. 

‘ Halloa, Malky, what a man you’ve grown,’ cried Fergus 
cheerily. ‘ fm sure you can’t see to lift potatoes now. Come 
on up the road a bit with me ; I want to speak to you, and I 
haven’t time to wait.’ 

‘ When did ye come back ? ’ asked Malcolm, with a slow 
smile of pleasure on his sunburned face. 

4 Why, yesterday, and I’m going away on Monday. I’ve been 
in seeing Aunt Jenny and Katie. How are you getting on, 
Malky ? ’ 

‘ Oh, fine,’ cried Malcolm, and dropped his eyes down on the 
ground. He walked usually thus, in a kind of shuffling gait, 
with his hands in his pockets. Rob Macnaughton used to watch 
him whiles, and think what a revelation these brooding thoughts 
would be could they be laid bare. 

4 You are getting to be a grand farmer, they say, Malcolm. 
You work all your aunt’s croft yourself, don’t you?* 

4 Ay ; I could dae’t twice ower noo,’ said the lad, with 
emphasis ; * we’ve nae beasts noo. It’s dreich work without a 
beast aboot the place.’ 

‘ Oh, but you’ll get beasts again, Malky,’ said Fergus cheerily, 
for he did not wish to get him on to the vexed question of the 
crofts. ‘ I want to hear about how you’re getting on with your 
lessons. Can you write yet? ’ 

4 Yes, an’ read an’ a’ ; Katie learned me. She writes a 
graund haund,’ said Malcolm proudly. 

4 Ay, Katie’s as clever as she’s bonnie ; we are all proud of 


MALCOLM. 135 

Katie,’ said Fergus cheerily. 4 And has Rob succeeded in teach- 
ing you Gaelic yet?’ 

4 Some o’d,’ said Malcolm, with a grin of delight ; 4 but it’s 
awfu* ill. Rob’s a graund man.’ 

4 Yes, he is. And when are we to see your poetry, Malky ? 
I know it is in you.’ 

A dark red flush rose slowly over the lad’s face, and Fergus 
wondered to see his mouth tremble. 

4 My poetry ! hoots, Rob jist havers.’ 

4 Never a bit of him, Malky ; Rob knows what’s what. Make 
up a song about Katie. I’m sure you could never get a finer 
subject.’ 

‘Katie thinks my sangs graunder than Rob’s,’ said Mal- 
colm, betrayed into confidence by Fergus Macleod’s cheery 
sympathy. 

4 Of course ; an’ so maybe will I, though the Gaelic is a want. 
It’s a splendid language, Malcolm ; I’m learning it myself, but 
it’s worse than Greek or Latin. Well, are you going to let me 
have one of your songs, eh ? ’ 

4 No’ the nicht,’ said Malcolm, actually trembling. Poor 
laddie ! nobody knew what his 4 sangs ’ were to him. Even 
Rob Macnaughton, a poet himself, only partially understood. 

4 Have you any books of poetry in the house, Malcolm ? I 
could get some for you in Edinburgh,’ said Fergus kindly. 

4 1 have Ossian,’ said Malcolm proudly. 4 Rob said he wad 
gie me it when I could read it, and I can read it now.’ 

4 Can you really? and do you like Ossian, Malcolm?’ asked 
Fergus curiously, for it always seemed a lot of nonsense to him 
— a repeating of long fine-sounding sentences without meaning. 
Our Fergus was a very commonplace young man, only very 
honest and kind and true, which all poets are not. 

4 Like Ossian ? I should just think it. He’s graund,’ said 
Malcolm, stretching himself up, for these were his own themes. 

4 He lived up by at the heid of the loch, ye ken, and he’s buried 
in the sma glen.’ 

4 A bit of him, eh, Malky? Some say he’s buried down at 
the Rumbling Brig, but we won’t quarrel over Ossian’s grave. 
Have you ever heard of Sir Walter Scott, Malky? ’ 


136 


SHEILA. 


4 Eob whiles speaks aboot him.’ 

4 He was a great man. 1*11 send you one of his books. It is 
called Waverley, and is written about Glenquaich. He once 
stopped in the inn at Amulree, but nobody knew. Would you 
like to read it ? ’ 

4 Ay wad I.* 

4 Well, I’ll send it. Stick into your books, and maybe you’ll 
be Sir Malcolm Menzies some day. Never mind anything else. 
What are ye making such a face at, Malky ? * 

In the grey distance a horse and rider were rapidly approach- 
ing, and Fergus recognised Puddin’ M‘Bean. He was always 
called Puddin’ yet, to distinguish him from his father. Puddin* 
had developed into a very genteel young gentleman, and had 
all the airs of a college-bred man. He would never be good- 
looking, for, though much thinner, his figure was still too 

broadly proportioned to be elegant, and his hair was as red 

and his face as freckled as ever. He was going away to Edin- 
burgh to serve a time in the office of a Writer to the Signet, 
and also to attend some law classes, all with a view to fitting 
himself to be factor on an estate. 

4 Hulloa, Macleod! been at the Fauld, eh? ’ he said, drawing 
in his pony sharply, and turning him round till his hind legs 
were dangerously near to Malcolm Menzies. 4 What time are 
you going off on Monday ? I’ve been up at Dalmore.’ 

4 Have you ? ’ asked Fergus stiffly. 

4 Yes. I was asked up to tea with Miss Macdonald,* 

said Puddin’, glorying in the words. 4 Get out of the 

way, Malcolm Menzies. Don’t you see you’re annoying my 
pony ? * 

4 What div I care?’ asked Malcolm, and there was positively 
a malignant look on his face. 

4 Get out of the way, or I’ll let you taste my whip-end,’ said 
Puddin’ angrily, but Fergus gripped him by the arm. 

4 Malcolm Menzies is with me, and the road is not yours, 
M'Bean,’ he said quietly, but meaningly. 4 I’ll punch your 
head if you don’t ride on.’ 

4 Oh, very well. I beg your pardon, and Mr. Malcolm 
Menzies’s pardon likewise,’ said Angus scoffingly. ‘Judge a 


MALCOLM. 


i37 

man by the company he keeps. I don’t admire yours, Fergus 
Macleod.’ 

And, being at a safe distance, Puddin’ laughed a mocking 
laugh, which made Fergus long to let him feel the weight of his 
strong right arm. 

‘Never mind him, Malky. He knows no better,’ said Fergus 
soothingly, for he saw that his companion’s passion was rising. 
‘ Where were we at? Oh, about Sir Walter Scott.’ 

‘ I’ll be into him some day, an’ if I begin I’ll no* let him aft 
easy,’ said Malcolm, with an oath. 

It gave Fergus quite a shock to hear an oath fall from the 
lips of Malcolm Menzies, but he took no notice of it. 

‘ Never mind him, Malky. He’s just as impudent to me, and 
I never think of minding him. Do you mind the day I thrashed 
him, and the other day I dookit him for telling on you, when 
we were all at Peter Crerar’s school ? ’ 

But the cloud would not lift from Malcolm’s brow. It was 
indeed as Rob had said. He cherished a mortal hatred against 
the M‘Beans, both father and son. 

‘Malky, do you ever tell Miss Sheila about your songs when 
she comes down?’ asked Fergus, making one more effort to 
change the subject. To his unspeakable amazement, Malcolm, 
instead of giving an answer, turned round and ran off as if 
pursued by something evil. 

Fergus looked after him a moment, not without apprehen- 
sion lest it was Puddin’ he was after; but Malcolm turned off 
the road, and cut through the moss at Lynmore towards the 
Fauld. 

Fergus laughed. Malcolm was certainly queer. He did not, 
however, connect his extraordinary action in any way with the 
mention of Sheila’s name. Fergus quickened his pace when his 
companion left him, and his heart was full of bitterness. He 
remembered the fact that Angus M‘Bean should be an invited 
gi^est at Dalmore. The factor’s son, ill-natured, loutish Angus 
M‘Bean, drinking tea with Sheila in the drawing-room ! Surely 
Rob had not exaggerated, and the M‘Beans had too sure a hold 
on Dalmore. For two or three years now Fergus had seen very 
little of Sheila, and had spoken with his uncle only once since 

12 


SHEILA . 


138 

the previous Christmas. He was never asked to Dalmore, and 
his mother never encouraged him to go. Nevertheless, when 
he came to the school corner that night, he turned along the 
Crieff road towards the Girron Brig. He had an errand to 
Dalmore. 




CHAPTER XY. 

UNCLE GRAHAM. 

And whispering tongues can poison truth. 

Coleridge. 


HEN Fergus reached the house, he did not at once 
enter, as he had been wont to do, without giving 
any notice of his presence. He was now almost a 
stranger in Dalmore, and, besides, the familiar 
freedom of childhood had given place to the shyness of 
youth. So, after looking about him with an interest quite as 
keen if less boisterous than of yore, he pulled the hall bell. 
A strange servant who did not know him answered to his 
summons. 

4 Can I see the Laird — Mr. Macdonald ? ’ he asked. 

4 1 don’t know, sir. The Laird sees very few. But I can 
take your message and your name/ 

‘Perhaps I can see Miss Macdonald then,’ said Fergus 
quickly. ‘ My name is Macleod. You do not know me, I 
see. I live at Shonnen Lodge.’ 

‘ Oh, I beg pardon ! * said the woman. 4 Come in. Miss 
Macdonald is in the drawing-room with her governess.’ 

4 Thank you, I can go up ; I know the way,’ said the lad, with 
a smile. 4 You need not tell my uncle ; Miss Macdonald will 
take me to him/ 




140 


SHEILA. 


It was a simple thing, and the woman could not be expected 
to know him, yet his reception chilled the already full heart of 
Fergus- Macleod. Inch by inch he was drifting away from 
Dalmore, and now he was verily a stranger within its gates. 
He paused on the drawing-room landing, for the memory of 
the last time he had been in the house swept over him. It 
was indeed true that he had not been within Dalmore since the 
day of his aunt’s burying. 

There was no sound issuing from the drawing-room ; if it 
held two occupants, they were not conversing. But with a 
light, somewhat hesitating knock, Fergus opened the door and 
went in. By the fire, deeply engrossed in the pages of a book, 
was a young girl with two long plaits of bright brown hair 
hanging down her back, and a sweet girlish face supported in 
her hand, while her dark eyes eagerly scanned the fascinating 
Waverley , which was even then creating a great talk in the 
district. Could that be Sheila, the little mite in pinafores, who 
had come with such joyous anticipations with her mother to 
Dalmore ! The years had changed her, and yet dealt tenderly 
with her ; as he looked, Fergus thought he had never seen a 
creature more passing fair. 

She was so engrossed that she did not hear him come in, 
but when Tory, grown old and cross, gave a short warning 
bark, Sheila looked round irw surprise, and then sprang to 
her feet. 

4 Fergus, Fergus, is it really you ? ’ she cried, with all the 
old frankness, and she advanced towards him with both her 
hands outstretched. There was all the familiarity of childhood 
mingling curiously with the shyness of young girlhood in her 
look and action. 

4 Yes ; I thought you would have forgotten all about me, 
Sheila,’ said Fergus, and they shook hands quietly ; then a 
curious constraint fell upon them. The old. bairnly love was 
still between them, but the years had raised a little barrier 
which could not be bridged all at once. 

‘Your governess is not with you, Sheila?’ said Fergus then. 

4 She was here a little ago. She has gone to her own room. 
Have you come to stay at Shonnen for a while ? * 


UNCLE GRAHAM. 


141 

‘No. I am going away to Edinburgh on Monday. Did 
Angus M‘Bean not tell you ? I met him riding home from 
here.’ 

‘ He said he was going, but we never spoke of you. What 
a dandy he has grown ! ’ said Sheila, with a little laugh, which 
somehow put Fergus more at his ease. 

‘ Ay, he has a great conceit. I have come up from the 
Fauld, Sheila. Katie Menzies told me you were going away 
to school.* 

‘Yes, for a year to London, Fergus. I don’t want to go, 
but Aunt Ailsa has insisted on it. She says I must see some- 
thing more ; and two of her other nieces, her brother’s girls 
from Suffolk, are at the same school. I don’t like to leave 
papa.* 

‘ How is Uncle Graham ? He is just like a shadow to me now, 
Sheila. I hear people speaking about him, but nobody seems 
to know very much about him.* 

‘ He is not very well, poor papa.’ Sheila’s eyes filled with 
tears. She was only a girl yet, but she had acted a woman’s 
part in Dalmore. Like Fergus, she had known very little of 
the ordinary pursuits and joys of childhood. 

‘ Can I see him ? ’ 

‘ Of course. Will you come just now? He will have had 
his dinner. We do not all dine together now because papa is 
not able.’ 

‘ Does he ever speak about me, Sheila ? ’ 

‘ Not often. I don’t think you have behaved very well to 
him, Fergus. You never come to see him when you are at 
Shonnen.’ 

‘ I had to obey my mother, Sheila. She will be angry to- 
night when she knows I am here.’ 

Sheila was silent. She too, like Fergus, was beginning to 
understand things. She knew what had built up the barrier 
between Shonnen and Dalmore. 

‘ I heard a great lot of strange things at the Fauld to- 
day, Sheila. Did you know the folks are talking of leaving it?’ 

4 Yes, I know. Oh, Fergus Macleod, everything is going 
wrong ! ’ said Sheila, her tears starting afresh. 


142 


SHEILA . 


4 Does Uncle Graham know about it ? Surely he will never 
permit it.’ 

4 He knows, but he is very angry with the poor people ; I 
do not know why,’ said Sheila perplexedly. 4 They must 
have behaved very badly to him, but I can’t believe it.* 

4 Nor I. Somebody is telling lies about them, Sheila,’ said 
Fergus hotly. 4 That is why I have come up. I want to tell 
my uncle how hardly they are used.’ 

4 Perhaps you will be able to prevent them going away,’ said 
Sheila hopefully. 4 Will you come now to his room ? He sits 
always in the library, and has his bed in the little parlour off it/ 

4 Very well,’ said Fergus, rising readily, his heart beginning 
to beat with a little nervousness at the prospect of seeing his 
uncle. So the two went down-stairs again side by side, but 
never speaking a word. Even in these early days they looked 
a handsome, well-matched pair, the ruddy lace, blue eyes, and 
yellow hair of Fergus contrasting well with Sheila’s dark loveli- 
ness. She was yet in her unformed girlhood, in spite of her 
quiet, dignified, womanly way, but it was a girlhood full of 
loveliest promise. 

Sheila gave a low soft knock at the library door and then 
opened it, signifying to Fergus to remain a moment in the shadow 
of the doorway, till she should announce his presence. 

The sombre, dismal appearance of the room, with all its 
comforts, chilled Fergus Macleod, it seemed to speak so loudly 
of a man’s broken hopes and retirement from the world. In 
the big old red leather chair close to the gleaming hearth sat 
Macdonald, a feeble old man. 

4 Dear papa, have you had your dinner?’ Sheila asked, 
and when she reached his side, she smoothed his grey hair back 
from his forehead with her white soft hand. 

4 Yes, such as it was. What is it, Sheila? ’ 

4 1 have brought some one to see you — some one who loves 
you very much. It is Fergus. Come in, Fergus/ 

Fergus came forward, and his eyes filled with tears as he 
extended his hand to his uncle. 

4 How are you, Uncle Graham? We have not seen each other 
for a long time/ 


UNCLE GRAHAM. 


M3 


‘No.* 

Macdonald’s keen eye scanned the boy with a look which 
would have read his soul. It seemed to question his sincerity, 
and his object in coming to Dalmore. ‘ What do you want, 
lad ? Something, I’ll be bound, or you would not be here.’ 

The tone was not harsh, but it implied distrust and sus- 
picion, which Fergus keenly felt. Sheila, conscious of it too, 
slipped away out of the room. 

‘ I wanted to see you, Uncle Graham. Oh, how changed 
you are ! Surely you are very ill.* 

‘They say I have no ailment, and that young doctor who 
has come to Dunkeld told me yesterday that it was a sin for 
me to sit here, and that if I had only the desire I might be 
quite well. It was an honest advice, but the young man does 
not know. You have grown. What are you about now ? * 

Macdonald was intimately acquainted with the whole way 
of life at Shpnnen, and knew every movement made by his 
sister and her son, thanks to Mr. Angus M‘Bean, but it pleased 
him to question Fergus himself. 

‘ I am going away to the college in Edinburgh on Monday, 
Uncle Graham, to study for my degree.* 

‘ Ah, are we to see you in the pulpit in Amulree Kirk yet, 
then ? ’ 

‘No, not that degree. Til never make a minister,’ said 
Fergus quickly. 

‘Then what are ye to make of yourself?* asked the old man, 
bending his brows keenly on the boy’s face. 

‘ I don’t know yet, Uncle Graham. I daresay I shall get 
something to do,’ said Fergus bravely, though his heart was 
full to bursting. Never had his uncle received him so coldly, 
and treated him with such scornful harshness. What did it 
mean ? 

‘ And what’s your mother saying to it now ? ’ 

‘ Nothing ; she knows I am not to be a minister at any 
rate.’ 

‘ Ay, perhaps she has other views,’ said Macdonald drily. 
‘ So you think me changed, boy ? and why not ? I am an old 
man, sixty-three in November.’ 


144 


SHEILA . 


‘ That is not very old, Uncle Graham. There are plenty 
men far older even in Achnafauld. Look at Donald M’Glashan’s 
father, and Eoddie Maclean past seventy, and William Suther- 
land eighty-one, and can build dykes yet/ said Fergus cheer- 
fully. 

‘ So you are still sib to all the Fauld folk, and they think you 
a fine young fellow, no doubt, and make a hero and a martyr 
of you,’ said Macdonald, again with that suspicious harshness 
which so vexed the heart of the boy, because he could not 
understand it. He was not yet sufficiently versed in the guile 
of the world to comprehend or even suspect the underhanded 
villainy of Angus M’Bean. He did not like the man, certainly, 
but had not the remotest idea of the way he had worked 
upon his uncle, and poisoned his mind against all truth and 
right. 

‘I have always gone back and forward to the Fauld, 
Uncle Graham, more since the winter I went to Peter 
Crerar’s school/ he said in surprise. 4 1 was there to-day. 
They are in a sad way at the Fauld. Do you know about 
them ? * 

4 What about them ? * 

‘That they are so hardly dealt with, they are thinking of 
leaving the place.* 

4 Let them go ! an ungrateful pack ! let them go ! and a 
good riddance/ said Macdonald fiercely. ‘Their greed and 
their idleness surpasses anything, and makes the blood boil. 
Their pockets are lined with gold, they have bank accounts in 
Crieff and Aberfeldy bigger than mine, but they have a pauper’s 
soul, every man among them.* 

Fergus was terrified at the violence of his uncle’s anger, and 
sat silent. 

4 Of course you are on their side. I have heard of you, 
though you have kept wisely away from Dalmore, Fergus. 
You are young, and easily imposed upon, and so are to be 
excused. The Fauld cottars are like the daughters of the 
horseleech. They have but one cry, and that is, Give ! I have 
given them of my substance, potatoes for their seed, and for- 
given them arrears, while they fed their beasts on my pastures 


UNCLE GRAHAM. 


145 


and burned my peats, and laughed in my face. That good 
servant and faithful friend, Angus M‘Bean, has opened rny 
eyes, and now I know them for what they are. And I never 
heard better news than that they are going off to this new- 
fangled country, because there they’ll learn the lesson they 
richly deserve/ 

Fergus was silent still. In face of these remarks, delivered 
with an intensity which too clearly indicated the strength of 
his uncle’s conviction, he felt it useless to say a word. He had 
not, indeed, anything ready to reply, though he felt in his 
inmost soul the untruth and injustice of the opinions expressed. 
It was only since Angus M‘Bean had begun to grind the cottars 
under his rule that they had uttered a complaint. He had 
taken the loch fishing from them, and the hill pasture, and had 
even threatened to levy a tax on the peat mosses. And though 
these privileges, which had been theirs from time immemorial, 
had been wrested from them, the rents were maintained and 
even added to when any tack ran out, and not a penny would 
he spend in repairing the miserable homesteads and outhouses 
in the place. It was not to be expected that the cottars, being 
but human, could bear these things in silence. No doubt they 
had their faults : some of them were lazy, and believed in 
getting as much as possible for their money, but they were 
in the main honest, hard-working, unoffending folk, who did 
their duty as they knew how. But Angus M‘Bean had tried 
them beyond their endurance, and they had rebelled. 

4 I have found out the mistake of small holdings, Fergus 
Macleod. The actual money counted up may amount to more 
than the rental of big farms, but the privileges the cottars get 
soon eat up the profits. Before I die, there will be a change 
on the lands of Findowie and Dalmore, and whoever comes 
after me will be spared the cottar pest/ 

Fergus sat silent still. He thought of many things to say, 
but seemed to be tongue-tied. His uncle’s keen eyes never for 
a moment left his face. He saw disapproval in its expression, 
and it irritated him, even more than openly expressed contra- 
diction. 

4 You are young, Fergus, as I said, and easily imposed upon. 

13 


146 


SHEILA. 


Although you may never have land to look after, you may be 
in the way when a good advice will be of use. Treat all 
men as enemies till you prove them friends, and even 
then trust them no further than you see them. You are 
disapproving what I say. Some day you will remember it, 
and know I was right. Now, what did you come here for 
to-night ? ’ 

4 1 came,’ said Fergus boldly, then turning his fearless 
blue eyes on his uncle’s face, 4 to tell you how Angus 
M‘Bean oppresses the folk. He is a wicked and cruel 
man, and he tells lies about them to you. You can be angry 
if you like, Uncle Graham ; I know I am speaking the truth.’ 

4 Ay, ay ! it is but as Angus said. He is a shrewd man. 
Did ye not come up, Fergus, to see whether I was near my 
end ? Are ye hungering after the place, like your neighbours 
in the Fauld ? ’ 

Young though he was, Fergus Macleod understood and 
keenly felt the insinuation his uncle made. He sprang up, the 
ruddy colour deepening on his face, and turned about without 
a word to seek the door. He had his hot temper too, and was 
easily roused to anger. 

4 Come back, ye whelp ! that touches ye on the sore bit,’ 
said Macdonald, grimly enjoying the boy’s discomfiture. 4 Come 
back and sit down. Be honest now, Fergus Macleod. Have 
ye not begun to think what fine things you would do were 
you Laird of Dalmore ? ’ 

4 Uncle Graham, I’m going away home. Good-night,’ said 
Fergus quietly. 

4 What are ye greetin’ for, ye big bairn ? I would like 
ye none the less were ye to tell me honestly. It’s but 
what I expect,’ said Macdonald gruffly, yet with more real 
kindness than he had yet shown. 4 What are ye looking at 
now? ’ 

4 At that/ said Fergus, pointing with his forefinger to a 
portrait of his uncle’s wife which hung above the fireplace, and 
which he never remembered having seen before. 

Graham Macdonald’s eye followed the lad’s gesture and 
glance, and his head fell down upon his breast. If Angus 


UNCLE GRAHAM, 


*47 


M‘Bean had only known it, the sweet pathetic mouth and the 
mild eyes of that speaking likeness were the strongest barrier 
in the way of his high-handed dealing with the people. 

Ay, had the mistress of Dalmore but lived, there had been 
better days for the people of Achnafauld. 

‘ Leave me, boy, just now/ said Macdonald at length, while 
Fergus stood irresolute at the door, his heart yearning over 
his uncle. ‘ Come again when you are at Shonnen ; Sheila 
likes to see you/ 

And with that Fergus had to be content. He had no heart 
to go back to the drawing-room, but Sheila, listening for his 
step, came running down to say good-bye. 

‘Are you not coming up a little while, Fergus?’ she asked 
timidly. 

‘ No ; my mother will wonder why I have been so long. 
Good-bye, Sheila ; I hope you will like the boarding-school/ 

‘ I don’t think I shall,’ she said, as she gave him her hand. 

Poor bairns 1 they were both miserable, they did not know 
why. 

‘ You’ll come back a fine lady, Sheila, who has forgotten all 
about her old chum,’ said Fergus. 

‘No, no, I won’t. Oh, Fergus Macleod, I wish the days we 
used to fish in the Girron Burn, you and Colin and me, could 
come back, I am so lonely up here by myself/ 

‘ You have Uncle Graham and Puddin’ M’Bean,’ said Fergus, 
with a kind of subdued viciousness which gave his feelings 
immense relief. Then, though her eyes were wet, a peal of 
laughter broke from Sheila’s lips which woke a thousand sweet 
echoes through the quiet house. 

‘You might give me a kiss for Colin’s sake/ said Fergus in 
a queer, shy way. ‘We won’t likely see each other for a long 
time.’ 

‘I’ll kiss you for your own sake, Fergus/ said Sheila frankly 
and sweetly, and without a shade of embarrassment. In many 
things she was but a child still. 

It was many a long day before they kissed each other again. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

He must gain his end 
Although in gaining he offend 
Or even sacrifice a friend. 

J. B. Selkirk. 


HE years had dealt very gently with Ellen Macleod. 
She had not much to trouble her in her house of 
Shonnen. Her means were sufficient for her needs, 
and Fergus was her only anxiety. She had trained 
him to strict obedience, and had hitherto had no reason to com- 
plain of him. He had gone to Perth, and shared PuddhT 
M‘Bean’s lodging without saying a word, though he felt it 
keenly. The close intimacy of that semi-home life had not at 
all increased Fergus Macleod’s liking for the cowardly boy who 
had made himself so obnoxious to the Fauld bairns. But he 
stifled these feelings, and did his best to get along comfortably 
with Angus when they were at school. 

Angus, who had a wholesome memory of the smart punish- 
ment Fergus had twice inflicted upon him, left him in peace. 
But though the boys ate, and learned, and slept together, they 
were in no sense of the word chums, and it was a mistake to 
put them together. That trial, one of no ordinary kind for 
Fergus, was now* past, and his college days promised fairer than 
those he had spent at school. He need not see anything of 
Puddin’ unless he liked, and that was something. Ellen Macleod 

143 




MOTHER AND SON. 


149 


had not relinquished the hope of seeing Fergus a minister yet, 
though she had learned to hold her peace about it. She had 
also another hope, of which she said even less. The only 
person to whom she spoke of it with any freedom was Angus 
M>Bean, the factor. That astute individual was playing a 
double game, which in the end would result in his own dis- 
comfiture. In the meantime, however, he was flourishing like 
the proverbial green bay tree. The house of Auchloy had 
been enlarged and adorned until it looked more like a small 
mansion than a farmers abode. Mrs. M‘Bean had now her 
cook and housemaid, with whom, poor body, she had but a 
sorry time. A drawing-room furnished in green satin and 
adorned by numerous white starched tidies and woollen mats 
was at once the anxiety and the pride of her life. Then the 
two Miss M‘Beans were being educated at a select school in 
Perth, from which they would shortly return, full of airs, if 
not of graces, to further exercise the spirit of their plain but truly 
good-hearted mother. Had Mrs. M‘Bean not stood in mortal 
terror of her spouse, she would have given him a piece of her 
mind about his dealings with the peasantry, of which she did 
not at all approve. Her sympathies were entirely with her old 
neighbours in the Fauld, and she gave them many substantial 
expressions of it out of her husband’s knowledge. 

It was half-past seven that night when Fergus opened the 
garden gate at Shonnen. He had walked round by the road and 
across the Amulree Bridge, the night being too dark for him 
to cross the Braan by the stepping-stones. He had not hurried 
on his way, however, being engrossed by his own thoughts. 
There were many things weighing on the boy’s mind and heart. 

‘You are very late, Fergus,’ his mother said, in her habitually 
severe voice. Fergus could certainly not associate anything 
bright with his mother. She still wore the repulsive head- 
dress which, as a child, had frightened him, the only alteration 
being that she had cut off the long crape which used to hang 
down her back. 

‘Oh, mother, I am very sorry! I hope you did not wait,’ 
cried Fergus in his quick way, the spread table reminding him 
of tea. 


SHEILA. 


* 5 ° 

‘Of course I waited. Ring the bell for Jessie Mackenzie to 
bring in the teapot, and tell me where you have been/ 

Tea was still on the table in the dining-room, and his mother 
severely sitting by the fire waiting. 

Fergus was so accustomed to be cross-examined, and to give 
a minute account of his doings, that he thought nothing of it. 

‘ I was at the Fauld, mother, seeing all the old people. 
Jenny Menzies can’t stand or walk now with her rheumatism. 
But Katie is a great help. Mother, you wouldn’t know Katie 
Menzies now, she is such a bonnie girl.’ 

‘ Seeing I never saw her, I don’t suppose I should,’ said Ellen 
Macleod drily. 

‘ You know who she is, though, mother,’ said Fergus, with 
his mouth full. ‘And Malcolm is quite a man. Then I saw 
Rob Macnaughton, and that was all Oh, mother, just think 1 
The folks are speaking about emigrating, of going away to 
America, actually. Isn’t it fearful ? ’ 

‘What’s set them to think of that?’ asked Ellen Macleod 
quietly, though she knew the whole affairs of the Fauld better 
than Fergus could tell her. It was long since she had heard 
the emigration rumour. 

‘ Oh, the shameful way they are treated by Angus M‘Bean’ 
cried Fergus hotly. ‘You wouldn’t believe how they are 
treated. Do you know, mother, there is hardly a horse or a 
cow in the Fauld now, and not a sheep? The hill pasture is 
taken from them. It’s perfectly abominable the way Angus 
M‘Bean is doing, and the worst of it all is, that he has made 
Uncle Graham believe they are to blame. Mother, I do think 
he is a horrid, bad, greedy man.’ 

‘So they’ve stuffed your head finely for you at the Fauld,’ 
said Ellen Macleod, with that curious smile of hers, which was 
no smile at all. ‘ Did you never hear that every story has two 
sides, Fergus?’ 

‘Oh, I know, but anybody can see whose side is right. 
Mother, how can they make a living and pay their rents off 
these little crofts, when they’ve nothing to feed a beast on?’ 

‘ They wouldn’t say anything about their spinning and 
weaving. Go up to Tirchardie Mill when you’ve time, Fergus, 


MOTHER AND SON 


IS* 

and see what Walter Lachlan has to say about the Fauld folks 
and their earnings/ 

‘But, mother, they can’t spin and weave when they’ve no 
wool, nor sheep to clip?’ maintained Fergus hotly. 

‘They spin flax yet, though/ 

‘ Yes, but if they grow flax on their crofts, they can’t grow 
corn and potatoes,’ said Fergus shrewdly. ‘ Oh, mother, you 
know I am right, and it’s a cruel shame the way they are 
treated — that’s what I think/ 

‘Were you anywhere else than the Fauld, then? I thought 
you had maybe gone up to Auchloy to your tea.’ 

‘ 0 no, thank you ! I’ve seen plenty of Puddin* ; and his 
sisters are awful, mother. You should hear their fine English,’ 
said Fergus, with boyish candour. ‘ But I’ve been up at 
Dalmore/ 

‘ At Dalmore ! ’ Ellen Macleod’s brow darkened. 4 What 
were you doing there ? ’ 

‘ I went to see Uncle Graham.’ 

‘ And did you see him ? ’ she asked, her curiosity getting the 
better of her annoyance. 

‘Yes, I saw him/ 

‘ Is it true he is as ill as they say ? * 

‘Mother, I don’t think Uncle Graham will live long,’ said 
Fergus, and his lips quivered. Memory was faithful in the 
boy’s true heart. The sad changes the years had wrought 
could not destroy his old-time confidence, his old-time love for 
Uncle Graham. 

‘ What did he say to you? ’ 

‘ Not very much. He does not care about me now, I think,* 
said Fergus, in a low, uncertain voice, for there was a lump in 
his throat. 

‘Did you think he would? ’ asked his mother, in bitter scorn. 
‘Your day is past, my lad. Did you see the girl, his daughter, 
as he calls her ? 9 

‘Yes, I saw Sheila/ 

k It is she who has turned your uncle against you, and who 
hns supplanted you in Dalmore/ 

‘1 don’t care for that. I don’t believe it. I like Sheila. 


SHEILA, 


* 5 * 

She is as different from Bessie and Kate M‘Bean as night from 
day. I never saw a nicer girl in my life than Sheila, and I’m 
very sorry for her. She is miserable up in that lonely house.’ 

‘ Boy, you have a craven spirit. How will you look when 
your uncle is carried to Shian, and that chit is lady of 
Dal more ? * 

‘I don’t know/ said Fergus, in a low voice. ‘She will be 
kind to the people, anyway. She won’t believe all Angus 
M l Bean tells her.’ 

‘Fergus Macleod, you have a causeless resentment against 
Angus M‘Bean, who is your true friend and mine/ said Ellen 
Macleod, in a low, impressive voice. ‘You are sixteen and a 
half years old, and should understand things now, so I shall 
speak plainly to you. Angus M‘Bean is doing his utmost to 
work against the influence that girl and the Murrays have over 
your uncle. I don’t blame her much as yet, for she is young ; 
but the Murrays are doing their utmost to get your uncle to 
make her his heiress, and if they succeed, you will be a nameless 
beggar on the face of the earth.’ 

‘ Oh, mother, I am not a beggar just now. I shall not be 
any worse off then, shall I?’ asked Fergus, not greatly 
impressed by his mother’s speech. 

‘ Boy, you make me think shame for you/ she cried, growing 
white with passion. ‘Have you no ambition for yourself? 
Will you be perfectly well pleased to see Sheila Murray and 
her horde of relatives ruling in Dalmore. Your heritage! 
What right have they with it? If Graham Macdonald wilfully 
passes over his own kindred at the last, a curse will dwell upon 
Dalmore. I will invoke it if none else will.’ 

Ah, Ellen Macleod! it is long since your evil resentment 
cursed Dalmore. By the memory of her who sleeps in the 
old graveyard at Shian, spare the innocent bairn who never did 
you harm. 

‘ Mother, I suppose Uncle Graham can do what he likes with 
his own,’ said Fergus wearily. ‘1 would like very well to be 
Laird of Dalmore, for I like the place better than any place in 
the world. But I’m not going to beg for it, nor seek to turn 
Sheila out. If you knew Sheila, mother, you w T ould feel the 


MOTHER AND SON. 153 

same as me. I can work for my living, and keep you and 
myself, too, yet; wait till you see.* 

These words were more bitter than gall to the proud, 
ambitious heart of Ellen Macleod. She almost hated the boy 
for his lack of spirit, not knowing, poor blind creature, that he 
was showing a noble, generous, unselfish spirit a king might 
have envied. With all her harsh training, she had not been 
able to warp or curb that pure soul, which had a heritage 
greater and more to be desired than any earthly estate. 

She rose from her seat and flounced out of the room, leaving 
Fergus perplexed and more miserable than ever. 

He drew in a chair to the fire and sat down to think over 
what his mother had said, but his reverie was soon broken by 
a hard knock at the front door. When he heard Angus 
M‘Bean’s yoice asking for his mother, he rose up hurriedly and 
ran off up-stairs to his own little room, feeling that he could not 
bear to meet the factor just then. He shut the door and sat 
down by the window, and, leaning his head on his hand, looked 
out away across by Amulree, to where a bonnie moon was rising 
above Crom Creagh. Its light did not as yet touch Dalmore, 
but lie knew the exact spot where the house stood, and he had 
no need of light to guide his eyes to it. Ay, the lad loved 
Dalmore with a great love, and he knew that to call it his home, 
and to have in his hand the welfare of the folk among whom he 
had been reared, would be the happiest destiny he could ask on 
earth. But though he knew that there was a grain of truth in 
what his mother had said, and that Sheila stood between him 
and Dalmore, it made no difference in his feeling towards her. 
They had been bairns together, all in all to each other in the 
long days of that first beautiful summer when they had made 
acquaintance first, and the tie of bairnly love is one which is 
not easily severed. It would take even more than separation 
from Dalmore to break the sweet spell of the old trysts by the 
Girron Brig. He heard Angus M‘Bean go into the dining- 
room and his mother join him there ; then the door was shut, 
and only the subdued murmur of voices indicated that they 
were in conversation. 

Ellen Macleod was always courteous to Angus M‘Bean, and 


i54 


SHEILA. 


believed "him to be her true friend, while he was only seeking 
to serve his own ends. He knew the Laird was failing daily, 
and as he had as yet no idea what were his intentions regarding 
his property and estate, it behoved him to keep on good terms 
with both Shonnen and Dalmore. He hoped, however, for his own 
sake, that Sheila w T as to be the heiress. A weak, inexperienced^" 
girl would be much more easily dealt with than Ellen Macleod 
and her high-spirited, generous-minded boy. If Fergus Mac- 
leod ever became Laird of Dalmore, Angus M‘Bean had a good 
guess that his own day would be over. Therefore it behoved 
him to make hay while the sun shone. 

‘ A fine night, but cold. Winter will be upon us before we 
know where we are,’ said the factor, as he shook hands with 
Mrs. Macleod. ‘It’s a winter moon that’s up to-night.* 

‘Is it? Fergus has just come in. Excuse the table. Will 
you have a cup of tea ? * 

‘No, thank you; just come from it. We have a lively 
house just now with Angus and the girls. They are aye 
squabbling, and the piano goes from morning till night,’ said 
the factor rather proudly. ‘ I don’t know what the wife and I 
will do next week when the young folks leave us.* 

‘ Are your daughters going back to school ? They will be 
quite accomplished young ladies,’ said Ellen Macleod, not with- 
out a touch of amused scorn. She was often amused at the 
conceits of the factor, and certainly thought his ideas above his 
position. 

‘ They are smart girls, I own, and I’m expecting Angus to do 
great things at college. I hope he and Mr. Fergus will con- 
tinue to be friendly, and to keep each other out of bad 
company.* 

‘I am not afraid of my son,’ said Ellen Macleod rather 
haughtily. ‘He has been up at Dalmore seeing his uncle 
to-night.’ 

‘ Has he ? And what — how did they get on ? * asked the 
factor nervously, not at all sure about what might have been 
the meaning or issue of the interview. 

‘ The boy was grieved to see his uncle so ill. He thinks him 
dying. Is the Laird so far spent, Mr. MBean?* 


MOTHER AND SON 


*55 


‘ 1 — I really can’t tell. Of course I am seeing him often. 
Of course he is weak, but that young Doctor Culbard, who has 
come to Dunkeld, — a clever fellow they say, — actually told me 
yesterday, the Laird had not a single ailment, and that he 
might live twenty years yet, if he would only make up his 
mind to do it. But I myself don’t think, Mrs. Macleod, that 
he will last as many weeks/ 

‘Mr. M‘Bean,’ said Ellen Macleod, with a slight hesitation 
(for she had her own pride, and it sometimes reminded her that 
it was scarcely fit that she should discuss family matters with a 
servant), ‘have you ever heard the Laird say aught about 
Dalmore ? Is it likely he will leave the place to Alastair 
Murray’s child ? ’ 

‘The Lord forbid!’ said the factor quickly. ‘There is no 
doubt that she will get a good slice of it — Findowie, perhaps. 
He was suggesting to me something about repairing the old 
house on it. But he’ll never pass by Mr. Fergus, his own flesh 
and blood.* 

‘ Has he ever spoken about it to you at all ? ’ 

‘ Well, no, not exactly ; but, of course, I can see his drift,’ 
said the factor, not choosing to confess that he was as com- 
pletely ignorant of Macdonald’s intentions as Ellen Macleod 
herself. 

‘ Well, it would be a sin and a shame; but mark me, Angus 
M‘Bean, it would not greatly surprise me. Fergus is in a 
terrible way about this talk of emigration in the Fauld.’ 

‘I knew he would be. He’s got a soft heart, and they’ve 
got round him completely. Some day I expect Mr. Fergus 
will thank me for ridding Dalmore of these discontented cottars. 
They are a great toil and anxiety. I’m getting my blessings in 
Achnafauld just now, Mrs. Macleod. They’re all on my tap, 
and they’ve even threatened me with bullets, to say nothing of 
Ewan M‘Fadyen’s lang-nebbit maledictions, which are fear- 
some to listen to. I hope the emigration craze will only hold. 
There’s one nest I would like cleaned out among the rest, and 
that’s the Menzies’s. That Malcolm’s no’ canny. Were he in 
the town, he would be in an asylum.’ 

‘Fergus is especially fond of the Menzies’s,’ said Ellen Mac- 


SHEILA. 


156 

leod, with a slight smile. 1 I do not comprehend the boy. He 
has not a soul above the affairs of the common folk. He 
would rather sit an hour with the stocking -weaver than be 
Laird of Dalmore.’ 

4 He’s but a lad. Edinburgh will bring him to his level/ 
said the factor knowingly. 4 Take my word for it, Mrs. Mac- 
leod, he’ll meet the gentry in Edinburgh, and learn to be proud 
of his mother’s folks. I’m no’ feared for Mr. Fergus being able 
to uphold his position in Dalmore ; and he’ll change his ideas, 
too, about the Fauld folk.’ 

4 He is their enthusiastic advocate in the meantime, at any 
rate. None of the lawyers have ever been at Dalmore that you 
know of, then ? ’ 

4 No ; and Maggie Macintosh, that was with my wife at 
Auchloy, and is kitchen-maid at Dalmore, brings all the news. 
I’ll let ye ken, ma’am, whatever happens. I’m yours and Mr. 
Fergus’s humble servant, and I hope to see ye yet where ye 
should be, and should aye hae been,’ said the factor, in his 
blandest mood. 

Strange that Ellen Macleod should believe in the sincerity of 
such a man. In the wide world, Angus M‘Bean of Auchloy 
would serve but one master, and that was — Self. 




CHAPTER XVII. 

CHUMS. 

A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 

Longfellow. 

ERGUS had rebelled against sharing lodgings in 
Edinburgh with Angus M‘Bean, and so the open- 
ing of the University session found him domiciled 
alone in a small but comfortable room in the top flat 
of a house in Montagu Street. It seemed strange to the boy at 
first to be confined to so small a space, but from his window he 
could catch a glimpse of the corner of Arthur’s Seat, and the 
grim outline of Salisbury Crags, and that view was the greatest 
comfort the Highland boy had in town. It reminded him of 
home. It must not be supposed, however, that he was at all 
miserable in Edinburgh. At first the change and its constant 
bustle were delightful to him ; there was so much to see in spare 
hours and on holidays, that he never wearied, even for home. 

He speedily made acquaintance among the students, and 
became very friendly with a big, good-natured lad, with a smile 
and a kindly eye which seemed familiar to Fergus. When he 
learned his name he knew at once where he had seen these eyes 
before. The lad was Alastair Murray, from Murrayshaugh ; 
and he was his mother’s son. Young Murray was boarded with 
a very select family in Great King Street, and lived in a very 




SHEILA. 


158 

different style from Fergus; but that did not prevent the two 
from becoming inseparable chums. Alastair was supposed to 
be studying for his degree likewise, but was too idle and easy- 
minded to oppress himself much with books. The lads sat side 
by side in the Humanity class room, but Alastair took in very 
little of the learned professor’s lectures. Fergus, however, did 
his best. He was conscientious in everything, and, as he had 
been sent to college to learn, he did learn. But on half- 
holidays and Saturdays, Alastair and he took long walks to- 
gether all over Edinburgh and its beautiful environs, and were 
as chummy and as devoted to each other as boys of that age 
can be. Alastair wrote home when the spirit moved him, and 
his letters were filled with Fergus Macleod ; and when Lady 
Ailsa read them, she smiled a bit quiet smile to herself, and 
wrote back to her boy to keep up his friendship with Fergus, 
and be as kind to him as possible. In her own mind she knew 
that old Time, the stern and just, would heap revenges on Ellen 
Macleod’s head, and that the bairns among them, if let alone, 
would heal the old sores. Fergus had no sweet mother to 
whom he could pour out his boyish confidences. He wrote 
home dutifully every Saturday morning, faithfully rehearsing 
his week’s work ; and, though he might mention that he was 
going for a stroll to Craigmillar Castle, or a ramble through the 
Pentlands, he never by any chance wrote down the name of 
Alastair Murray. He had an uneasy feeling that his mother 
would not approve of his intimacy with Lady Ailsa’s son ; and 
yet when Alastair was such a jolly fellow, to whom his boyish 
affection went out, how could he cast him off? So the winter 
went by, and cemented yet more closely the tie of friendship 
between them. Each was utterly devoted to the other, and 
each believed the other the best fellow in the world. At 
Christmas, Alastair Murray went home, but Fergus had to 
remain over the holidays in town. The journey was long and 
expensive ; besides, the world about Amulree in the latter end 
of December was shut in by drifts, which were no mean rivals 
to the hills themselves. The hawthorn bloom had been thick 
and white in Strathbraan all through the summer, and the haws 
ruddy on the boughs later on, and they had not belied their 


CHUMS. 


159 

promise of a snowy Christmas. So Fergus wandered about the 
town in the holidays, thinking how ugly it looked, with its 
trampled snow and smoky, murky atmosphere, and thought of 
the wild beauties of Amulree, of the tender outlines of the 
wreaths in the roads, and even pictured the wild winds swirling 
the drifts in Glen Lochan like an unseen hand stirring a witch’s 
cauldron. The wee glen at the head of Loch Fraochie was a 
fearsome place in a snowstorm, Fergus knew. He went often 
to the Queen’s Park to slide on the lochs, and thought them 
mean in comparison with his own Fraochie, which all the winter 
through was a vast curling-ground. He was glad when the 
recess was over, and the students came back to town. Alastair 
was not at college on the first day, but next morning, when 
Fergus was walking briskly up and down the quadrangle at 
lunch-time, he felt Alastair’s big hand slap him on the 
back. 

4 Ilulloa, Fergie ! ’ 

‘Hulloa! got back, Alastair?’ said Fergus heartily. Then 
they linked arms, and went round and round the quadrangle to 
exchange news. Of course Alastair had the most to give, for 
Lady Ailsa always made Christmas a happy time for her boys, 
and grudged them no enjoyment. 

4 Oh, I say, Fergie, there’s an awful din going on up at your 
place,’ said Alastair suddenly. 4 The folks have all left their 
farms, and they’re going off to America. I heard them talking 
about it at home.’ 

Instantly Fergus was breathlessly interested. Though his 
mother wrote to him regularly, she never mentioned anything 
about the Fauld folks, nor any matters connected with the 
estate. 

4 Are they going soon ? Tell me all about it, Alastair, 
quick ! ’ 

4 Oh, I don’t know much. But surely your uncle has a 
mean sneak of a fellow for a factor. Hasn’t he put them out? 
I thought my mother said that.’ 

4 He’s helped anyway. Yes, he’s a mean sneak,’ said Fergus 
gloomily, but with an angry flash of his eye. ‘But they can’t 
go over the Atlantic just now.’ 


i6o 


SHEILA. 


‘Why not? I think they are going just now; at least, 
they’re out of their places.’ 

‘Well, but it is Upper Canada they are going to, and the 
ships can’t get up the St. Lawrence for the ice,’ said Fergus. 
‘If they are out of their farms, where are they living?* 

‘ Oh, I don’t know. Doesn’t your mother tell you all that 
sort of things when she writes? Mine does.’ 

‘She didn’t tell me anything about this. Oh, Alastair, I 
wish I could get home!’ said Fergus, in a tone of such painful 
inquiry that Alastair looked at him in amazement. 

‘ What for, Fergie ? ’ 

‘ To see what’s going on. It’ll be April before I’m home, 
and if they’re all away I don’t know what I’ll do.’ - 

‘But how does it matter to you? You aren’t the Laird,’ said 
Alastair, in rather a perplexed voice. 

‘No; but I like all these folks. There’s Donald M‘Glashan, 
and old Dugald, and Rob Macnaughton, only I don’t think 
he’ll be going. I wish I could see them, if only to say 
good-bye.’ 

‘Oh, well, perhaps they won’t be going till the spring, 
for the ice,’ said Alastair, who was not very clear on that 
point. ‘Likely they’ll all be there when you get back. The 
session ends on the 28th of March, and jolly glad I’ll be when 
it comes. It’s not much more than two months, Fergie, so 
cheer up.’ 

But Fergus was very down-hearted all day, and whenever he 
got home to his lodgings, he wrote a hasty letter to his mother, 
asking for all the news about the Fauld. In his absorbing 
interest about the cottars, he forgot his usual reticence regard- 
ing Alastair, and just wrote down that he had brought the 
news back from Murrayshaugh. Ellen Macleod had herself to 
blame for the way in which Fergus withheld his confidence from 
her. When had she encouraged it, or shown herself in the light 
of a sympathetic, interested friend to her boy ? She had frozen 
the mainsprings of his fresh, warm, impulsive young heart long 
ago, and could scarcely resent its lukewarmness now. Fergus 
knew the name of Murray was distasteful to her, and, grown 
worldly wise even in his young boyhood, refrained from inflict- 


CHUMS . 


161 


mg it upon her. At the expiry of a week his mother’s usual 
letter arrived, and, though she signified her receipt of his extra 
epistle, she merely said that she did not concern herself with 
affairs which were not her own. She had noted the name of 
Alastair Murray, but did not take notice of it in her reply. 
In the heat of his disappointment and eager desire to know 
really what was going on in Achnafauld, Fergus sat down 
and indited a hasty, boyish screed to Rob Macnaughton, the 
stocking- weaver, asking him to send him a long letter telling 
all that had transpired in the Fauld since he left the Glen. 
That letter Rob Macnaughton treasured among his most 
precious documents till his dying day. 

In a day or two there came back an answer, written in rather 
a cramped, unsteady hand, no less a personage than Ewan 
M‘Fadyen, the precentor, having taken it upon himself to reply 
on behalf of Rob, who was confined to his bed with rheumatism, 
and could not hold the pen in his stiff fingers. Rheumatism 
was a common complaint in Achnafauld in the winter time — 
the moist atmosphere, and the low-lying, damp situation of the 
houses, accounted for it. This letter of Ewan’s, written in his 
most grandiloquent style, is quite worthy of publication. Fergus 
kept it long in his possession as a curiosity, and I am not sure 
but that it is still extant among the papers in the library at 
Dalmore. 

Achnafauld, 

Glenquaich, Amulkee, by Dunkeld, 

The 16th day of January, 

Eighteen hundred and forty- eight, Anno Domini. 

To Mr. Fergus Macleod, at the College, in Edinburgh. 

Respected Sir, — 

I am organized by my disabled friend, Mr. Robert Mac- 
naughton, to indite a suitable and permanent reply to your 
honoured communication anent the agitation which has shooken 
this hamlet, nay, this entire glen, from east or west, to its solid 
foundation. This I will make it my endeavour to do to the utmost 
of my tolerable ability, and do but prefer a humble request that a 
student of so great and philosophical a college will be pleased to 
overlook and pass by any slight deviation from the straight equili- 
brium of grammatical correctness. 

14 


162 


SHEILA. 


Rob Macnaughton, being in haste, requests me not to dissipate 
your attention with my fine language, which, I confess, I am a 

master of, but I take it upon me to venture the supposition that 

even in my finest style I shall hardly be equal to the occasion. I 

will endeavour, however, in acquiescence with Rob’s desire, to 

inform you briefly what the facts of this interesting case are, as 
follows, viz. : — That the following responsible heads of households — 
viz. : — 

James Stewart, formerly of Turrich ; 

Alexander Maclean, cottar in Achnafauld; 

Thomas Macnaughton, do. do. 

Rory Maclean, do. do. 

William Crerar, do. do. 

Donald Macalpine, do. and blacksmith ; 

and the undersigned, viz. Ewan M‘Fadyen, cottar, and also 
precentor, viz. leader of the praise in the kirk of Amulree, have 
resolved and determined in a solemn league and covenant, on account 
of the oppression and inpidence of that upstart and contemptible 
truckler, Angus M‘Bean in Auchloy, to turn our respective backs 
upon the land of our birth and breeding, and cross the seas to a new 
and unexplored region which knows not Joseph, and this our families 
have agreed to, and it is our fixed intention to shake the dust from 
off our feet in the spring-time, — that vernate season when all nature 
rejoices, except ourselves, — and with every symptom of respect to 
Mr. Fergus Macleod, 

His humble servant, 

Ewan M ‘Fad yen. 

The close of Ewan’s epistle bore unmistakeable traces of 
haste. Rob, indeed, had lost patience with his scribe’s 
verbosity, and had thrown a book at his head. But, in spite 
of the long words and fine-sounding phrases, the meaning was 
perfectly clear. It was indeed clear that Angus M‘Bean had 
succeeded in completely souring the small tenants in Dal more. 
And they, foreseeing no prospect of any betterment in their 
situation, had wisely resolved to gird up their loins while they 
had yet a little left in their wallets, and seek a home in that 
distant land of which such good reports had reached their 
Now that he knew the worst, Fergus felt more contented, 
although wearying to get home to hear fuller particulars. 

He had seen Puddin’ M‘Rean several times in Edinburgh, 
but did not consort at all with him. Alastair Murray, who, in 


CHUMS . 


163 


spite of his good-nature, had a pride of his own, declined to 
stand on any footing with the factor’s son at Auchloy. That 
red-haired fellow from Glenquaich did not find favour in the 
eyes of handsome, high-born Alastair Murray. 

The brief spring session passed at length, and on the 28th of 
March Fergus Macleod returned home. Alastair, Angus 
M‘Bean, and he travelled by the same train. The Highland 
line was being formed, and had now reached Ballinluig, so 
that the lads got home all the way to Dunkeld by train. 
The factor’s smart dogcart was in waiting for young Angus, 
the factor himself driving. 

‘Hulloa! how are you, Mr. Fergus? Jump up,’ said the 
factor familiarly, when Fergus came off the platform. But, 
to his amazement, Fergus only gave him a haughty little 
nod. 

‘No, thank you, I’m going to walk. Here’s your trap, 
Alastair,’ he said, turning away from the M ‘Beans and speak- 
ing to his friend. 

‘ But, Mr. Fergus, Mrs. Macleod said I was to bring you up,’ 
said the factor. ‘ Come.’ 

‘No, thank you,’ repeated Fergus. ‘Tell my mother I’m 
walking, and that I’ll be up before it’s dark.’ 

‘ All right,’ said Angus M‘Bean, trying to speak pleasantly, 
though he was very angry. ‘ He’s trying to show off before 
young Murrayshaugh, but I’ll take it out of him,’ he added to 
his son. ‘ In with you, Angus, and let’s off.’ 

‘ You can’t walk all that distance, Fergie,’ said Alastair, in 
concern. ‘Come on home with me, and you’ll get Dick’s 
pony.’ 

‘ 0 no, Alastair. Ten miles ! I’ll walk that in two hours 
and a half easily,’ cried Fergus cheerily. ‘ Good-bye ; I hope 
we’ll see each other in the holidays.’ 

‘ See each other ! of course. If the weather keeps like this, 
there’ll be some rare fishing in the Logie. Of course you’ll 
come over for a few days. My mother will settle all that.’ 

So they shook hands and parted, Alastair to drive rapidly 
home to the hearty, loving welcome of Murrayshaugh, and 
Fergus to trudge manfully up the brae and through Strath- 


164 


SHEILA. 


braan to Anmlree. The Laird’s nephew walked afoot, carrying 
his bag, while the Laird’s factor covered the miles with the 
fleet thoroughbred for which the spoil of the cottars had paid. 
The brief soreness Fergus had felt at the station soon wore 
off, and he began to take interest in what was about him. 
Never had the green and lovely Athole woods seemed so pass- 
ing fair as they did that April day, to the country boy whose 
eyes had grown weary of the town. He turned back again 
and again to look at the rugged face of Craigy barns, which was 
clothed with the rich mosaic of her spring-tide hues. The 
green banks of the noble Tay were like finest emerald velvet, 
and the river itself flashed and rippled in the sunlight, till its 
beauty filled the boy’s whole soul. He was neither an artist 
nor a poet, but he felt it all in his soul, and loved the land of 
his birth better than anything in the world. He had to stop 
at one part of the road and look away up the glen past Dalguise 
and Dowally to the green braes of Tullymet and the purple hills 
in the distance, a picture whose marrow he had never seen. 
He saw the trouts leaping in the gleaming pools in the Braan, 
which were shaded by the drooping birch trees and the golden 
tassels of the larches, and his young heart leaped too, for the 
world was a lovely world, and life was all before him. So on 
he trudged past Trochrie, and on to Drumour and Tomnagrew, 
where the landscape grew more bare and treeless, though not 
less beautiful in the eyes of Fergus Macleod. When he got up 
to the crest of the brae by Dalreoch, he saw Crom Creagh, and 
the sunset shafts of golden light falling athwart the windows of 
Dalmore. Then he dashed his hand across his eyes, for they 
were wet. God guide the boy 1 he had an earnest heart, and 
already he had been sorely tried. Just then he met Tom 
Macnaughton, the blind piper, dressed in his kilt, away to 
play at a marriage in Ballinreich, and of course he had to 
stand and crack a bit with him, for the piper knew the lad’s 
foot before he came up. It was about eight o’clock, and, the 
sun being down, a soft golden haze enveloped the whole glen, 
when Fergus Macleod laid his hand on the gate of Shonnen. 
He felt no thrill of delight as he did so, for he had no love for 
the place, nor had it ever possessed for him any of the attrac- 


CHUMS. 


165 

tions of home. His mother was watching for him, and came 
out to the door to meet him with but a chilly welcome on her 
lips. 

‘Ye are a fool, Fergus, to walk the road ye might have 
ridden. Whether is it pride or thrawnness that makes you so 
sorry civil to Mr. M l Bean of Auchloy ? \ 




CHAPTER XVIIL 

HOME AGAIN. 

The short but simple annals of the poor. 

Gray. 

[jEN MACLEOD was glad to see her son, however, 
in spite of her scanty welcome, and when he sat 
down to tea her eye viewed him with keen pride. 
He had grown a manly fellow, and there was the 
dawn of manhood in his look and manner. Fergus was no 
longer a boy, to be chidden and ordered even by his mother. 
So she alluded no more to his refusal to ride up in Angus 
M ‘Bean’s trap. 

4 Mother, what’s all this about the Fauld ? * he asked, in his 
quick way. 4 Are they really going away ? I can’t believe it.’ 

4 Oh, it’s true enough. They go to Glasgow, I’m told, the 
day after to-morrow. Silly fools, they don’t know when they 
are well off. So Lady Ailsa’s son brought you the news. Are 
you intimate with him, Fergus?’ 

4 0 yes; Alastair is a splendid fellow, mother 1 ’ said Fergus 
enthusiastically. 4 We are the best of chums, and spend our 
Saturdays together, always.’ 

4 It seems as if you purposely made friendships and did 
things to vex me, Fergus. The Murrays are not your true 
friends. Have you forgotten that this lad and Sheila Murray 
are full cousins ? * 



166 



HOME AGAIN. 


167 


‘No; but, mother, I can’t make any difference. I can’t 
always mind that people are not my friends, as you say. I like 
Alastair, and always will. And as for being Sheila’s cousin,’ he 
added, with a light laugh, ‘we agree perfectly about her. 
Sheila is everybody’s chum at Murrayshaugh ; but she’s mine 
too, when she’s in Amulree.’' 

These words were bitter as gall to Ellen Macleod, but she 
passed them by in silence. 

‘Mother, I’m going to run along to the Fauld; I must see 
the old folks. I won’t be more than an hour, and it is quite 
light yet.’ 

‘All right! I would not keep you from your friends,’ she said, 
with a slight touch of scorn. ‘I heard of the letter you wrote 
to the stocking- weaver. It was not wisely done, Fergus.’ 

‘ Why ? Oh, mother, I had such a letter from Ewan 
M‘Fadyen!’ cried Fergus mirthfully. ‘It is in my bag. We 
can see it after. It is full of the longest words you ever saw or 
heard of. Rob’s cripple leg was bothering him, and his rheu- 
matic arm, so that he could not write.’ 

‘I am not much interested in these ungrateful people,’ was 
the cold reply. ‘ I want to hear about your college life. 
Angus M‘Bean has done very well, his father tells me.’ 

‘I know nothing about him, except that he went with fellows 
who could not do him any good,’ said Fergus coolly. ‘ Of 
course he did not belong to our set. Puddin’ soon found his 
level in Edinburgh College, mother. A cad is soon spotted 
there.’ 

‘ What do you mean by these strange, ill-bred words, Fergus ? ’ 

‘I beg your pardon, mother. One can’t help picking up a 
little slang. I meant to say that an ungentlemanly fellow is 
soon marked ; and, in spite of his fine clothes and airs, Puddin’ 
will never be anything but just Puddin’ M‘Bean. How are 
Bessie and Kate? Do you ever see them? ’ 

‘ Occasionally. They are well-bred girls. Angus M‘Bean 
has credit by his family.’ 

‘ I am glad to hear it,’ said Fergus carelessly. ‘ Oh, mother, 
how bonnie Amulree is looking just now, with all the green 
leaves on the manse trees I ’ 


i6S 


SHEILA. 


Fergus said the manse trees, but he was thinking and speaking 
of the woods about Dalmore. 

‘ Uncle Graham is no worse, is he? * 

‘Not that I know of/ answered his mother. ‘You won’t 
stay late, then, if you are going. Remember, you owe a duty 
to me. You have been away from me more than six months.’ 

‘And jolly glad to get home, I can tell you ,’ said Fergus 
cheerily. ‘ No, I won’t be long. I only want to ask for Rob, 
and shake hands with the smith, and have a peep at Katie 
Menzies/ 

So saying, Fergus caught up his cap and ran out whistling, 
his spirits overflowing with the joy of being once more at home. 
He missed Colin at his heels. That faithful friend was now 
dead, and there was no dog at Dalmore but poor Tory, who in 
his old age had grown very dyspeptic, and consequently was 
very lazy and cross. 

Ellen Macleod went out to the door and watched the lad’s 
fine figure as he marched along the stony road towards Kinloch 
— watched him with all a mother’s pride. She loved him more 
in his independent young manhood than she had loved him in 
his childhood. His spirit and his pride matched her own, 
though it was of a mellower and more beautiful type. Fergus 
never looked back, but strode on, with many a glance, it is true, 
oyer the moors to Dalmore, about which the grey night-shadows 
were gathering softly, as if in pity for the old house which was 
now so desolate a home. The loch was lying darkly in the 
shadow too, for the sunset glow never touched it; but it w r as 
wholly beautiful in the eyes of the lad, as he stood a moment 
on the old bridge and watched it and the river which flowed so 
deep and silent and swiftly below. He could almost fancy he 
saw the big hungry pike darting to and fro in the gleaming 
depths below the bridge ; for by some strange means pike had 
come to Loch Fraochie, and helped to devour the trout which 
used to be netted for the folks who stayed over the protracted 
communion services at Amulree. Over the bridge and up 
through the grassy path went Fergus, and came upon Malcolm 
Menzies, working, though it was nearly dark, on the potato 
land, preparing it for the seed. 


HO AMs AGAIN, 169 

4 Hullo, Malky ! here I am again. No holidays for you, my 
boy, eh ? Do you ever give yourself a rest ? * 

‘ 1 dinna need it. I’m best workin’ hard. It keeps me doon, 
as Katie says/ said Malcolm, as he stood up, his face all aglow 
with pleasure at sight of his old companion and defender. 

‘You are looking much bigger and stronger, Malky. How’s 
Katie ? ’ 

6 Katie’s fine.* 

‘ And Aunt Jenny, eh ? 9 

‘ Fine too, though she canna rise noo, nor help herselV 
‘ So you are to lose a lot of your neighbours, Malky ? The 
Fauld will be dull enough without them all/ 

‘ Ay ; but I’m gled Rob Macnaughton has a cripple leg.’ 

‘ To keep him at home/ laughed Fergus. ‘You and Katie 
are not going either. I’m very glad/ 

‘ I wad gang if it werena for Katie, Mr. Fergus/ said 
Malcolm, with a curious gleam in his eye. 4 There’s whiles I 
canna bide here hardly. The factor’s aye meddlin’ wi’ me. 
He says I canna ferm the land, but I see weel eneuch he’s 
wantin’ us oot o’ this Fauld an’ a’/ 

‘ Never mind him, Malky ; he can’t put you out unless you 
are willing to go/ 

‘ I dinna ken. He says he’ll rise the rent, an’ it’s ower dear 
already. We’ve to pay for horse wark too, ye ken, an* that 
disna pay. Is Puddin’ hame frae the college too ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; but you mustn’t call him Puddin’ now, Malcolm, he is 
such a fine young gentleman. He wears a gold finger-ring and 
has a silver-topped cane/ said Fergus, with a laugh. 

‘ I hope he’ll bide oot o’ my road,’ said Malcolm, in a low 
voice. ‘ Ye’ll be gaun to stop at hame for a while now? ’ 

‘For a month, Malky ; but I must away over to Rob’s. I see 
a lot o’ them at the smith’s. Is Donald really going away? ’ 

‘ Ay ; and there’s a man frae Findowie cornin’ up to the 
smiddy.’ 

4 Malky, if the Laird had been quite w r ell, these things would 
not be,’ said Fergus soberly. 4 1 believe the factor does things 
in my uncle’s name which he never sanctioned/ 

‘ We ken that, but we’ll be waur some day/ said Malky 

15 


170 


SHEILA . 


quietly, as he went back to his work. Fergus crossed over the 
burn and passed by Jenny’s door, meaning to look in and see 
Katie last of all. As he neared the smiddy door, he heard a 
loud burst of laughter, which did not seem to indicate much 
heaviness of heart. It was Ewan M‘Fadyen, holding forth as 
usual in his solemn, bombastic style, to the great amusement of 
the others. Mary Macalpine, the smith’s wife, looking out of 
the door, caught sight of Fergus. 

‘Here’s the young Laird,’ she cried, for by that title was the 
laddie now known in the Fauld. 

‘ Well, how are you all ? Mary, you are looking splendid ! ’ 
cried Fergus, stepping across the smiddy doorstep, when he was 
immediately surrounded by Donald and all the rest, eager to 
shake him by the hand. 

4 What were you all laughing at?* asked Fergus, when he 
could get breath to speak. 1 1 thought you’d be all in very bad 
spirits.’ 

‘Nay, for we are now free from the hand of the oppressor,’ 
said Ewan solemnly ; but the tear stood in Mary Macal pine’s 
eye. 

‘ Tell Maister Fergus about Rory Maclean bein’ shot in the 
Sma’ Glen, Ewan,* said young Rob Stewart, whose father had 
been in Turrich. 

‘Tell it yourself, Rob, or you, Donald,’ said Fergus to the 
smith. ‘ If Ewan begins, dear knows where he’ll end. Who 
shot Rory ? ’ 

‘ Ay, that’s it — wha shot Rory ? ’ replied the smith, his sides 
shaking with laughter. ‘ He was cornin’ thro’ the sma’ glen frae 
Crieff the ither nicht wi’ his cairt. He had a bottle o’ barm in 
his oxter, an’ the heat o’ his arm garred the cork flee oot wi’ a 
lood report. It was a dark nicht, an’ Rory, a muckle saft chield, 
as ye ken, Maister Fergus, thocht the deil was efter him, or 
that somebody had killed him deid wi’ a gunshot. So he left 
the beast staunin’ i’ the glen, an’ gaed aff on his hale legs to the 
shepherd’s hoose at the Brig o’ Newton, an’ gied them a terrible 
fricht. He said he was mortally hurt, an’ began to tell them 
hoo his gear was to be pairted. But the shepherd, seein’ 
the barm rinnin’ ower his leg, says, “The bluid’s unco white, 


HOME AGAIN . 


171 

Rory.” But it was lang or Rory was convinced he wasna 
killed.* 

‘That’s a queer story, Donald,’ said Fergus, laughing; ‘but 
I’m glad you’ve got something to laugh at. It seems serious 
enough to me that you are all going away from the Fauld.’ 

‘ We’ve got the warst brunt ower noo, lad,’ said the smith. 

‘ That we havena, smith,’ put in Ewan. ‘ For we have yet 
to plough the unknown tracts of the vasty deep, and that’ll be 
very severe upon the equilibrium, to say nothing about our 
stomachs.’ 

‘When do you go away from the Glen?’ asked Fergus, 
paying no attention to Ewan. In serious moments, when he 
wanted information, he was sometimes impatient of the pre- 
centor’s long-winded sentences. 

4 No’ the morn, but on Wednesday mornin’, Maister Fergus,’ 
said the smith, ‘we’ll gang oot o’ the Glen — four-an* -twenty 
souls o’ us, an’ a heap o’ gear. We’re no pretendin’ we’re gaun 
oot beggars, Maister Fergus. We are only gaun so that we’ll 
no’ be beggars. Could we hae made a leevin’ ava, we wad hae 
bidden i’ the Glen. Look at Mary there, she’ll hae her een 
grutten oot or ever they see the last o’ Glenquaich.’ 

The smith’s voice faltered too, and a silence fell upon the 
little company. Strong, resolute men though they were, it was 
no light thing for them to turn their backs on their ‘ bairn’s- 
hame,’ which is ever the dearest we know. 

‘It’s just awful to think you are going away from the Fauld,’ 
said Fergus hurriedly. ‘I — I wish I was the Laird; things 
would be different.’ 

‘ Ay, we ken that ; but ye hae gotten a lesson, Maister 
Fergus, an’ if ye ever come to your ain, ye’ll ken to live an’ let 
live, an’ no* treat folks as if they were waur than brute beasts 
without sense,’ said the smith. ‘ When ye see the auld Laird, 
Maister Fergus, tell him we gaed oot no’ blamin’ him, for when 
he was in his health things werena ill wi’ us ; but tell him we 
left a curse on that black imp at Auchloy, an’ that Dalmore’ll 
never prosper or he gets the road.* 

A shadow darkened the doorway, a face looked in, with a 
mocking smile. The factor himself, sneaking about to overhear 


172 


SHEILA. 


chance remarks, had got the listener’s portion, though not for 
the first time in Achnafauld. 

Fergus ran out, but the factor was not to be seen. Then he 
crossed the road, lifted the sneck of Rob’s door, and went in. 

4 Are ye there, Rob ? ’ 

* Ay, lad, I’m here ; ye are welcome as the sun in hairst. 
Come in ; though I’m not able to meet ye at the door.’ 

Fergus pushed open the door of the little kitchen, and there 
was Rob sitting at the fire, with the deal table before him 
covered with bits of paper, while he had an old copybook before 
him and a pen behind his ear. 

‘Are you making poetry, Rob? I’ll disturb you.’ 

4 Never mind. Sit down, lad ; blithe am I to see your face.’ 

4 I’m glad to see you, too, Rob, but I’m not able to bear the 
folks going away. It’s a terrible, terrible shame ! ’ 

The lad threw himself into a chair, and one dry, quick 'sob 
broke from his lips. A peculiar kindness gleamed in the dark 
eye of the stocking-weaver as it rested on the boy’s bent head. 

4 Ay, lad, this is but the beginnin’ o’ the desolation of which 
I spoke to you before,’ he said. 4 There’s nobody coming to fill 
the places of them that’s going away, save the smiddy, so you 
can imagine what like the place will be — a rickle o’ empty hooses 
where the beasts o’ the field can shelter, but where human foot 
doesna enter. I’m no* tired o’ life, Fergus Macleod, but I have 
no desire to live to see the complete doonfa’ o’ Achnafauld.’ 

‘What’s to become of the land, then, Rob?’ 

‘ Ye need hardly ask. The big feck o’t gangs in wi’ Auchloy,’ 
said Rob, dropping his more poetical language, and speaking 
sharply to the point. ‘ Then Turrich and Little Tftrrieh are let 
thegither wi’ some o’ the crofts at Kinloch. But I jalouse 
Angus M‘Bean is waitin’ or the folk be safely awa or he shows 
his haund.’ 

4 It’s a sad business. It just makes me miserable,’ said 
Fergus, rising wearily. 4 I must go home, for I promised to 
my mother not to stay long. I’ll be along to-morrow, Rob. 
Good-bye just now.’ 

4 Mr. Fergus,’ said the stocking- weaver, 4 1 dinna want to 
push my nose into the affairs o’ my betters, but they say the 


HOME AGAIN. 


i7J 

auld Laird’s a deem’ man, an’ I wad but advise ye to try an’ 
look effer yer ain. I ken yer pride, my lad, but there’s whiles 
we hae to pit doon a firm foot on pride to dae what’s richt. 
Gang you up to Dalmore, an’ see what’s what, an’ see there’s 
nae writin’ dune up there that shouldna be. Angus M 4 Bean is 
never oot o’ Dalmore, an’ there’ll maybe be mair come o’d than 
you or yours wad like.’ 

4 Everything’s all wrong, Rob,’ said Fergus hopelessly, 
shaking his head as he went out by the door. His face 
brightened a little at sight of Katie, bonnie and winsome as of 
yore, filling the water-pitchers at the well, and when he went 
up to her he had even a light, jesting word to greet her. Katie 
was glad and pleased to see him. She was grateful to him for 
his kind way with Malcolm, who had so few friends. 

They stood but a few minutes, talking, of course, about the 
one absorbing subject of interest in the clachan ; then, bidding 
her good-night, and refusing her invitation to come in and see 
her aunt, he turned up the path to the road which skirted the 
south side of the loch. Just at the turn he met young Angus, 
with his hands in his pockets, puffing away at a cigar, with all 
the airs of a foolish boy who thought himself a man. To be 
sure, Angus was now in his twentieth year, and so, perhaps, 
was justified in thinking himself quite grown-up. But he had 
no more than a boy’s sense. 

‘Hulloa, Fergus, you know where the village belles are to be 
found,’ he said offensively. 4 Quite a picture, ’pon my word. 
Jacob at the well sort of thing.’ 

4 Puddin’, you are a perfect idiot,’ said Fergus hotly. The 
very idea of such a thing in connection with Katie Menzies was 
too absurd. 

4 Oh, of course, a fellow always is when he tramps on another 
fellow’s toes. I must be down to see the sweet Katie ; a pretty 
girl, ’pon honour. She is a regular rustic beauty. Ah, that’ll 
put up your monkey. You have a sneaking after her, then ? 

Ha, ha ! * 

Fergus was so tried, he could almost have knocked the 
stupid fellow down, but, reflecting that it was only Puddin’ 
M‘Bean, he only gave his lips a kind of haughty curl, which 


SHEILA. 


*74 

somehow made Angus redden. It seemed to measure a distance 
between them. Fergus actually looked at him as if he were 
beneath contempt. Before he could say anything, Fergus had 
passed on, and was walking with a long, striding step up the 
road. 

He was quite out of sorts. Everything seemed to conspire 
to vex him. Even Puddin’s stupid jeering had left a rankling 
sting. He walked on until he had passed the swelling moors 
which hid Dalinore, and he could see its lights gleaming through 
the darkening night. Thoughts seemed to lie upon him then 
like a great flood — Dalmore at the mercy of aliens and servants ; 
even Sheila, who might have been its guardian angel, was far 
away in a London school ; and in that lonely house his uncle 
was left to die, without a loving hand, or the smile of kith or 
kin about his bed. That was of far greater moment to Fergus 
Macleod than the dividing of the estate. It seemed, indeed, 
more than he could bear. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LAST MEETIN&. 

Waking the memories that sleep 
In the heart's silence long and deep. 

ACDONALD of Dalmore was confined to his bed 
now for the greater part of the day. If he had a 
specific disease, the doctors did not name it, but, 
though he suffered great weakness of body, his 
mental faculties were unclouded. He knew everything that 
was going on on his estates, at least, in so far as Angus M‘Bean 
kept him acquainted with it. There were some things, of 
course, which that wily individual kept to himself. The letter 
which Fergus Maeleod had written to Rob Macnaughton had 
been duly discussed in the library at Dalmore. Ewan 
M‘Fadyen, who could keep nothing to himself, had taken care 
to acquaint the factor with its contents, particularly with the 
bit referring to him. When it was turned over again, with the 
factor’s own suitable embellishments, it had assumed the form 
of a tirade against the Laird himself. So Macdonald was more 
angered than usual against his nephew. That same evening he 
came home, and, after passing by the smiddy, where he saw 
Fergus, the factor betook himself up the Corrymuckloch road 
to Dalmore. lie was such a constant visitor there, that his 
comings and goings were scarcely noticed. He generally 
entered without seeking admittance, and made his own way to 

171 




176 


SHEILA. 


the library, or wherever the Laird happened to be. There was 
nobody to challenge him but Tory, which he usually did with 
many a bark and snarl, for the animal hated him. Just as the 
factor was walking across the hall that evening, Maggie 
Macintosh, the maid, came up from the kitchen. « 

4 Well, Maggie, 1 he said familiarly, 4 anything new? * 

4 No’ much ; but Colquhoun, the writer, was here the day, 
and he’s to be back on Saturday,* she said hurriedly. * I 
thocht ye wad like to ken.* 

4 Of course, of course. I’ll see you again, Maggie,’ said the 
factor carelessly. 4 The Laird’s up the night ? ’ 

4 No, sir ; he’s in his bed.* 

4 All right, I’ll just go in; thank you, Maggie,’ he said, and 
turned the handle of the library door. 

Macdonald was sitting up in his bed, a poor, thin, wasted 
shadow, with his grey hairs straggling about his brow, and his 
keen, deep-set eyes peering out with a peculiar brilliancy which 
struck even Angus M‘Bean. The Laird was certainly worse. 

4 Good evening, Angus ; sit down,’ s;iid the Laird, in his 
usual quiet, rather listless voice. 4 Anything fresh? ’ 

4 Not much, sir. Mr. Fergus Macleod returned to Shonnen 
to night.’ 

4 Ay, you told me he was coming. He’ll be in a terrible way 
about this exodus from the Fauld.* 

4 Yes ; he’s down among them holding a council of war in the 
smiddy,’ said the factor, with a hard laugh. 4 1 was passing by 
and overheard some of their sayings. I think he was urging 
them not to hurry, for things would soon be different.* 

4 Ay; what did he mean?’ asked the Laird. 

4 He meant, and, indeed, said that when he was Laird things 
would be different. The ungrateful young rascal, that 1 
should say it of him ; but it roused my anger, Laird, after what 
you did for him in the past.’ 

4 So the lad, young as he is, is waiting on dead men’s shoes 
already ? ’ said the Laird grimly. 4 Tell him from me, if ye like, 
Angus, that a wise henwife doesna count her chickens before 
they are hatched.* 

4 1 wouldna like to take it upon myself to tell him that, 


THE LAST MEETING. 


*77 


Laird. Of course be is the direct heir ; but I hope he’ll be an 
old man before he writes himself Laird of Dalmore,’ said the 
factor smoothly. He was gasping to know the wherefore of 
David Colquhoun the writer’s visit to Dalmore, but had not 
the face to ask the question directly at the Laird. 

‘And they are going away when? upon Wednesday morning, 
is it, the poor silly bodies?* asked Macdonald. ‘Do they think 
they’ll get land and a living for nothing in another country any 
more than in Glenquaich ? * 

‘ They certainly expect that, sir ; that’s why they are 
going.’ 

‘Well, well, let them go. They are not going empty-handed 
from the place, ye were saying ? ’ 

‘ Not they. I wish ye saw the kists upon kists of linen and 
dear knows what packed in the houses. They’ve strippet the 
Glen, Laird, an’ yet they’re countin’ themselves ill-used.’ 

‘Well, well, I don’t grudge them their gear; they’ll maybe 
need it all,’ said the Laird, and his restless eyes wandered about 
the room as if seeking for something. ‘ So the lad’s come home ? 
Bid him come up, Angus, when ye see him. I wouldna mind a 
word with him again, though he does think me a Tartar. He’s 
a lad of spirit, Fergus Macleod. Ye canna deny that, Angus?’ 

‘If ye call it spirit,’ said the factor rather sourly, ‘he has 
helped to turn the folk against Dalmore, that’s certain, for I’ve 
heard him with my own ears.’ 

‘Well, well, he’s honest at any rate. Ye had better leave 
me, Angus. I am tired to-night, and cannot be troubled with 
any more talk.’ 

‘ Have ye been thinking much about business to-day, sir ? ’ 
the factor asked, as he rose to his feet, loth to go till he could 
carry something definite with him. 

‘ Not more than usual. Good-night. Mind and tell Fergus 
to come up,’ said the Laird, and turned his face to the wall. 
So there was nothing for Angus M‘Bean but to go, which he 
did, reluctantly enough. He would have given a great deal to 
learn what was Mr. Colquhoun’s errand to Dalmore. As he 
went out, Mrs. Cameron, the housekeeper, went into the Laird’s 
room. She was constant and faithful in her attendance upon 


i7» 


SHEILA. 


him for the sake of her mistress, whose memory she worshipped 
still. 

4 Is that you, Cameron ? * 

4 Ay, sir, it’s me.’ 

* What time is it ? * 

* Twenty minutes from nine, sir.’ 

4 It’s too late to-night, then. The first thing in the morn- 
ing, bid Lachlan yoke the pair in the carriage, and go over to 
Murrayshaugh for Lady Ailsa.’ 

4 Lady Ailsa, sir 1 Are ye worse the night ? * 

‘Maybe. I want Lady Ailsa to come and bide here, 
Cameron. She will not refuse me. She was here seven years 
ago biding when August comes. Ye can send what message ye 
like to Murrayshaugh, but she’ll understand.* 

4 Sir, would y^u like to see Miss Sheila ? 9 asked the house- 
keeper. 

4 Ay, that’s what I want. Lady Ailsa will arrange about it. 
I want no strangers about Dalmore, Cameron, only Lady Ailsa 
and my bairn. And when Angus M‘Bean comes to the door 
again, see that he doesna get in or I give leave. He comes in 
here as if the place were his own.’ 

The latter order gave Mrs. Cameron the most lively satis- 
faction. She did not at all approve of Angus M‘Bean. She 
knew quite well what all these orders portended ; indeed, she 
could see that the Laird was drawing near his end. She was 
right glad to think that it was to Lady Ailsa he turned once 
more in his hour of need, for she was a good woman and a true 
friend. Angus M‘Bean had left the hall door open, and the 
night wind was blowing coldly in. So Cameron crossed over to 
shut it before she went down-stairs. She got a fright by seeing 
a figure on the doorstep, just within the shadow of the porch. 

4 It’s you, Mr. Fergus. Bless me, what a fricht you ga^e me l 
Come in, come in.* 

4 1 don’t think I can come in. I was coming up by Corry- 
miickloch, and I thought I would just run up and ask for my 
uncle, Mrs. Cameron. Tell me just how he is?’ 

4 That I will. Come in, Mr. Fergus, just into the gunroom, 
if no further,* said the housekeeper, who loved the boy, and had 


THE LAST MEETING . 


x 79 


never forgotten his demeanour that day he came to Dalmore 
when his uncle’s wife died. 4 Did ye meet Mr. M‘Bean ? He’s 
just this minute gone.’ 

i I saw him, but he didn’t see me. I came up the footpath, 
and was at the stable corner when he went down the avenue,’ 
Fergus answered, as he followed the housekeeper into the gun- 
room, which was now never used. It had been Fergus 
Macleod’s favourite haunt in the old days, when nothing had 
come between himself and Uncle Graham. 

‘The Laird’s far through, Mr. Fergus,* said the housekeeper 
sadly. ‘ He was just giving me orders to send to Murray shaugh 
for Lady Ailsa. Miss Sheila will be coming home immediately, 
likely.’ 

‘ Is my uncle dying, Mrs. Cameron ? * asked Fergus, in a 
painful whisper, for she had given him an unexpected shock. 

‘ I fear it, Mr. Fergus. I cannot think he will last many 
days.’ 

‘ Could — oh, do you think he would see me, Mrs. Cameron ? 
I cannot bear to think I may never see him again.* 

i I’ll ask him. I’m sure he will see you. Eh, laddie, had ye 
been aye at Dalmore, I believe this would never have happened,’ 
she said, as she went out of the room, and once more returned 
to the Laird’s chamber. 

‘ Are ye sleeping, sir ? ’ she asked. 

‘ No ; what now ? * asked Macdonald rather peevishly. 

* There’s somebody come to ask for ye, sir, and would fain 
see ye,’ she said, bending over him. 

‘ Ay ; who’s that ? ’ 

4 Mr. Fergus, from Shonnen.’ 

1 Bid him come in, and turn up the lamp,’ said the Laird 
quickly. 4 Give me a mouthful of the wine before he comes in. 
Ay, that’ll do.’ 

Fergus had scarcely any hope that his uncle would see him, 
and N was surprised when Mrs. Cameron brought him the friendly 
message. 

He entered the sick-room with his cap in his hand, half 
shyly, half eagerly, as if not knowing exactly how to comport 
himself. There was a barrier now between him and the uncle 


i8o 


SHEILA . 


who had been the hero and friend of his childish days. He 
was greatly shocked by his uncle’s changed appearance. It was 
only six months since he had seen him before, but in that time 
a marked change had been wrought. 

‘ Well, lad, have ye come to see the old man again? We’ll 
not be here very long now,’ said Macdonald, with a grim smile. 

‘ Ye are a big, buirdly chield. Sit ye down, sit ye down.’ 

Fergus took the wasted hand of his uncle between his two 
strong palms and pressed it, but was unable to speak. Graham 
Macdonald saw what was in the boy’s heart, for it spoke in his 
earnest eye, and he wondered that he had believed aught ill of him. 

‘ Sit ye down, sit ye down,’ he said quickly, once more. ‘ So 
ye’ve gotten home? not a whit the wiser for your college lore, 
I’ll be bound.’ 

‘Ay, Uncle Graham, I’ve learned something,’ answered 
Fergus, with a gleam of his own bright smile. ‘ I’ve learned 
what like a town’s life is, and to be glad that I’m a Highland- 
man.’ 

‘Well, that’s something. Did ye meet our gentleman factor 
out by as ye came up ? ’ asked Graham Macdonald, with a 
curious, dry smile. 

‘ I saw him, Uncle Graham, but he didn’t see me,’ Fergus 
answered quietly. 

‘That was maybe as well. He wouldna be sair pleased to see 
you at Dalmore. Well, lad, he’s made a clearance of the Fauld. 
He says it’ll be better for Dalmore, but I’ll no’ live to see 
whether he be a true prophet. They have given me a fell 
amount of bother this while, Fergus. They think I’m a hard 
laird, but they are waur tenants. They have served me ill, 
Fergus. ’ 

‘ Uncle Graham,’ — in his great earnestness Fergus laid his 
young, strong hand on his uncle’s arm,— you don’t know the 
right way. I can’t help it if you are angry. Angus M l Bean 
has not told you the truth about the Fauld folks. They have 
tried to do well, but he would not let them ; he has just turned 
them out, Uncle Graham. At least, he made it impossible for 
them to live with any comfort in the place, and they were 
obliged to leave before they lost everything.’ 


THE LAST MEETING. 


181 


4 Ye are a perfect Radical, laddie. Ye’ll no’ uphold the lairds 
at all,’ said Macdonald, not ill-pleased with his nephew’s bold 
speech. 

4 1 can’t uphold what’s wrong, Uncle Graham ; and I say the 
Fauld folks have not been rightly treated. Oh, if you could 
only get up and go down to see for yourself 1 I have been 
down seeing them all to-night, and do you know what message 
Donald M‘Glashan sent up to you ? ’ 

4 No; what was it? An honest chap, the smith, but lazy, 
terribly lazy. Wants to eat for nothing. But what did he 
say?’ 

4 He said I was to tell you they went out not blaming you, 
for they were quite comfortable when you looked after your 
own affairs. He said, too,* added the lad, a little hesitatingly, 
not knowing how his uncle might receive the latter part of 
Donald’s message, 4 that a curse would lie on Dalmore till 
Angus M‘Bean was put away.’ 

4 Ay, ay, and he said that?’ said the Laird, with a hollow, 
mirthless laugh. ‘There’s no love lost betwixt the Fauld folk 
and Auchloy. Well, well, Donald may be no’ far wrang. Well, 
Fergus, ye see me far through. And are you to be Laird of 
Dalmore ? ’ 

4 No, Uncle Graham — I don’t know. I wish you would get 

well.’ 

‘That’ll never be,’ said the Laird, in a low voice. ‘Fergus 
Macleod, whatever your lot may be, lay one thing to heart. 
Marry young, lad, for if ye wait as long as I waited, ye set your 
mind owre firmly on your wife, and if she be taken as mine 
was, it’s death to you. Fergus, I believe ye never bore me a 
grudge or an ill-will because I married.’ 

4 Uncle Graham, I loved her,’ said the boy simply, but with 
an earnestness inexpressibly touching. 

‘ Lad, ye can teach your elders a lesson, yet ye havena had 
a chance. But ye are the son of the minister of Meiklemore, 
who was too good for this world,* said the Laird musingly. 
4 Tell me, do you an’ your mother agree ? ’ 

4 Agree ! of course/ 

‘Well, ye are the first Ellen Macleod has ever ’greed with,’ 


182 


SHEILA. 


said the Laird grimly. ‘You and Sheila used to be thick, 
didn’t ye ? The bairn had aye a great speakin’ about ye.* 

Fergus smiled somewhat bashfully, being just at the sensitive 
age. The Laird smiled too, very faintly, at the rising colour in 
the lad’s face. A new and pleasant thought had struck him, 
but he did not put it into words. 

* And what’s all this college lore to do for you, Fergus ? ’ he 
asked. ‘ What are ye to do for a living? ’ 

‘I don’t know yet, Uncle Graham. 1 wanted to go and work 
when I came from Perth, but mother wanted me to go to college.’ 

‘ Ay, her notions are high,’ said the Laird dryly. ‘ Never- 
theless, ye must obey your mother, I suppose. A chap like 
you will never want, Fergus Macleod. Ye will make a name 
and a place for yourself wherever ye be/ 

Fergus Macleod’s face flushed with pride and pleasure at his 
uncle’s praise. He still retained his old admiration for the 
Laird, and his commendation meant a great deal. 

4 I’ll not be afraid to work, at any rate, uncle, I’m so strong.’ 

4 Ay, ye look it. But what would ye like best to do ? * 

‘ Farm land,’ responded Fergus promptly. 4 1 won’t work at 
anything that’ll take me to the town.’ 

4 Ay, ay. Well, well. Ye may get your heart’s desire, and 
ye may no’. I’m tired, Fergus, and maun bid ye good-night. 
Come up the morn and see me. You’ve fairly turned your 
back on Dalmore.’ 

4 But no’ my face, Uncle Graham ; for it’s the first place I 
look over to when I’m at Shonnen, and the last at night,* said 
Fergus, laughing, as he rose to his feet. He hacl not felt so 
happy for a long time. Confidence seemed to be restored 
between himself* and Uncle Graham. 

4 Good-night, then. Bid Mistress Cameron come to me as 
you go down. Ay, ay, ye are a buirdly chield. In five years 
there’ll not be your marrow in Glenquaich or Strathbraan. 
An’ she’s a sweet bairn. Good-night. Come again the morn,’ 
said Macdonald somewhat drowsily ; and when Fergus left him 
he closed his eyes, but muttered half under his breath, 4 Ay, ay, 
a buirdly chield, and she’s a bonnie bairn. It wad make a* 
rioht for Dalmore-’ 


THE LAST MEETING. 


183 


Often Macdonald lapsed into the broad Scotch, especially in 
moments of strong feeling. When Mrs. Cameron came into the 
room, she was surprised to see two large tears slowly rolling down 
the Laird’s cheeks. ‘ Is that you, Cameron ? * he said, sitting 
up with sudden energy. * Bring me from the library the 
writing-pad and a broad sheet of paper, with pen and ink, and 
set the lamp here on this table.* 

The housekeeper opened the library door and brought the 
required articles, then propped up the Laird among his pillows 
to make a comfortable position for writing. She was not 
without a natural curiosity as to what he was going to do ; he 
did not often now have a pen in his hand. 

‘That’ll do, Cameron. Is the hand-bell near? I’ll ring it 
when I want ye,* said the Laird, so she was obliged to withdraw. 

It was quite half an hour before the bell rang, but when she 
returned there were no signs of any written papers to be seen. 
He bade her take away the things, and as she did so she 
observed that a half of the sheet she had provided was gone, 
and that the ink was still wet on the pen the Laird had used. 





CHAPTER XX, 

AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER. 

I will speak daggers to her. 

Hamlet. 

HOSE carriage is that away up to Dalmore, I 
wonder? * said Ellen Macleod half aloud, as she was 
standing at her bedroom window on the upper flat 
at Shonnen next morning. 

‘It’s the carriage that went for Lady Ailsa, ma’am,* said 
Jessie Mackenzie, the maid, who was busy dusting the room. 

4 Lady Ailsa ! Has she come to Dalmore ? * 

4 Yes, ma’am. They told me at the inn this morning, when 
I was over for the milk, that the Laird was^ worse, and had sent 
for Lady Ailsa.’ 

Ellen Macleod bit her lips. Scarcely before a servant could 
she keep back the utterance of her angry thought. 

4 Get on with your dusting there, Jessie, and be sharp about 
it. Do you know it is twelve o’clock in the day?* she said 
sharply, as she quitted the room and went hastily down-stairs. 
Fergus was sitting on the doorstep carefully examining his 
fishing-tackle, for it was a mild, bright morning, and the burns 
were in splendid order. 

4 Fergus, did your uncle tell you last night he had sent for 
Lady Ailsa?’ she asked sharply. 

4 No, mother ; he didn’t say anything about her.* 

184 




AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER. 


185 


4 Well, there she is away up. He is worse this morning, 
Jessie says, and I am not called. But I’ll go, Fergus Macleod, 
in spite of Ailsa Murray. I have a right in Dalmore which she 
has not. 1 

Fergus dropped his rod and looked up into his mother’s face 
with a strange, sad, perplexed expression. There was a hidden 
bitterness, a terrible depth of revengeful, angry feeling in the 
short, sharp words she uttered. But he had no right to speak, 
nor to say what she should do, so he turned to his work again 
with a sigh. And Ellen Macleod, in the heat of her anger, 
put on her bonnet and marched away up to Dalmore. Lady 
Ailsa was eating a morsel of lunch in the dining-room when the 
gaunt black figure of Ellen Macleod stalked in before her. 
Lady Ailsa saw the thunder on her brow, but was absolutely 
mistress of the occasion. She was a gentle little woman, but 
not timid in matters of right or wrong, and could be very 
brave when she had the approval of her own conscience. She 
had done no wrong to Ellen Macleod or her boy, and had no 
occasion to fear her. 

4 Good morning, Ellen,’ she said quietly, and without offering 
to rise or shake hands, for she could not forget the last time 
they had met. 4 It is a long drive from Murrayshaugh. I am 
quite hungry. Won’t you sit down ? ’ 

4 If I please, I suppose I may, in my brother’s house, Lady 
Ailsa,’ said Ellen Macleod icily. ‘I shall just go up and lay 
aside my bonnet. As my brother is so ill, I shall just stay.’ 

So saying, she marched out of the room. When the door 
closed a smile of amusement rippled across Lady Ailsa’s face, 
but it soon passed, and she looked perplexed. 

4 That is what in Alastair’s slang would be called a 44 go,” she 
said to herself. 4 Now, what am I to do ? Ellen Macleod as 
good as told me to quit. But am I to leave poor Macdonald 
to her tender mercies? She’ll frighten him into a fit ; and then 
there’s Sheila, poor darling ; she’ll be home in two days. No, 
I must stay, now I am here, whatever the consequences.’ But 
her lunch was spoiled. Her appetite had vanished at sight of 
Ellen Macleod’s sour visage, and she sat with her elbows on the 
table, wondering greatly what was going on up-stairs, 

16 


1 86 


SHEILA. 


Ellen Macleod walked up-stairs, entered one of the guest- 
chambers, and laid off her bonnet and shawl. Her hard face 
was very resolute. She knew she had a battle to fight, but she 
was armed for it, and intended to win. She was not going to 
stand by and see her son’s heritage parted among aliens without 
making an effort to saveYL As she came out of the room, Mrs. 
Cameron met her, and started as if she had seen a ghost. 

4 Don’t look so scared, Cameron,’ said Ellen Macleod, with a 
chilly smile. 4 1 have come to nurse my brother. He has 
moved from his old rooms, I see. Where is he ? ’ 

4 In the little parlour off the library, ma’am,’ said Cameron, 
civilly enough, but her heart sank within her. She had never 
personally experienced Mrs. Macleod’s rule, for there was no 
housekeeper in Dalmore in her day, but she had heard sufficient 
about her to make her dread her coming to the house. 

She watched her go down and enter the library. When the 
door closed, Cameron rushed down to the drawing-room with a 
pile of household napery on her arm. 

4 Oh, Lady Ailsa,’ she cried, almost before she was in the 
room, 4 do you know who has come? Mrs. Macleod from 
Shonnen, and she’s away in to the Laird.’ 

4 Hush, Cameron! never mind. Mrs. Macleod is the Laird’s 
sister,’ said Lady Ailsa quietly. 4 We cannot question her right 
to see him if she wishes. I wish you would order a fire for me 
in my own room. It is much colder here than at Murrays- 
haugh.’ 

4 0 yes, my lady, I’ll do that ; and you’ll stay ? You won’t 
go away and leave me with Mrs. Macleod ? ’ 

4 1 must stay until Miss Macdonald comes now, at any rate, 
Cameron,’ said Lady Ailsa, with a slight smile. 

‘The I aird was asking a little ago if you were ready to see 
him, my lady. Will you go in? ’ 

4 Not until Mrs. Macleod comes out,’ said Lady Ailsa. 4 When 
she sees how spent he is, she surely will not stay long.* 

Meanwhile, Ellen Macleod had passed through the library 
and entered her brother’s sick-room. It was much darkened ; 
for he had passed a restless, troubled night, and in the morning 
had begged them to shut in the windows, and he would try to 


AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER. 187 

sleep. He was awakened from a light doze by the heavy 
rustling of a woman’s dress in the room. 

‘Is that you, Ailsa?’ he asked feebly. ‘Come in; never 
mind the windows ; we can talk quite well in the dark. I have 
a lot to say to you. I am so glad you have come.’ 

‘ Lady Ailsa is in the house, Macdonald ; but I am your 
sister, Ellen Macleod, come over from Shonnen to see you. I 
am grieved to see you so changed.’ 

She spoke with unwonted softness, for she was terribly 
shocked by the ravages the wasted years had made on the once 
stalwart Laird of Dalmore. But the very sound of her voice 
roused the dying man into a passion terrible to see. In his 
long solitude he had brooded over the past, and magnified the 
unkind treatment his sister had bestowed upon his wife, until it 
had become a mortal offence which he would not forgive even 
on the verge of the grave. 

‘ You — you dare ! ’ he cried, in a choking voice. ‘ Get cut 
of my sight! I would not curse you for the boy’s sake, though 
I know not how you ever bore such a son. Leave me, woman, 
or’ — 

The violence of his anger, the purple flush in his face, the 
wildness of his eye, frightened Ellen Macleod, and she beat a 
hasty retreat into the adjoining room. Then Macdonald took 
the hand-bell and shook it with tremendous force, which made 
Mrs. Cameron drop her napery on the hall floor and run to 
the room. 

‘ What are you about, Cameron, that you allow whoever 
pleases to enter the house and come to my room ? ’ he thundered, 
with something of his old strength and vigour. ‘Lock the 
doors, and let no one come in until I give permission. 5 

‘ Sir, I dared not keep Mrs. Macleod out,’ said Cameron, 
trembling, not with nervousness for herself, but with apprehen- 
sion for her master, who was nearly in a fit. 

‘ Why not? Where is Lady Ailsa? Send her here. What 
is she good for if not to keep the house in order? Tell her 
to see that Mrs. Macleod leaves the house.’ 

Pleasant words for a sister to hear ! Ellen Macleod, stand- 
ing by the library table, clutched her hands, and her white lips 


SHEILA . 


188 

became like a thread. She was wholly and cruelly injured in 
her own eyes. She was one of those self-righteous persons who 
never take home blame to themselves. She regarded Macdonald 
as the prey of self-seeking, greedy outsiders, who had turned 
him against his own. Her heart was a tumult of dark thoughts, 
unrelieved by a single kindly impulse. Her face hardened yet 
more. She gathered her skirts in her hand, and went out by 
the way she had come. At the dining-room door Lady Ailsa 
was standing listening, afraid lest Ellen Macleod’s visit had 
done the Laird some harm. 

4 For some extraordinary reason, Lady Ailsa, my presence is 
not agreeable to my brother/ she said, with a dark scowl. 
4 Perhaps you, who are such a privileged person in Dalmore, 
can explain it ? 9 

‘Yes, I can explain it, Ellen Macleod/ said Lady Ailsa 
quietly, but with emphasis. 4 1 pass over the insinuation you 
make against me, and will only ask you to go back in memory 
six years ago. Did you do one act of kindness or even of 
justice to the dear woman your brother married? Do 
you remember after her death what sympathy you had for 
her orphan child? You and I met last in this very hall, 
Ellen Macleod, and Macdonald saw how you greeted the 
poor child, whose desolate condition might have appealed to 
your heart. Macdonald has not forgotten these things, nor 
have I.* 

‘Nor have 1/ said Ellen Macleod, in the heat of passion. *1 
know well enough what you are scheming for, Ailsa Murray. 
But I shall watch you. If I can help it, that woman’s child 
shall never reign in Dalmore.’ 

‘Were it not that she found a father in Graham Macdonald, 
and that her heart cleaves to him, I should say it was a dark 
day for her when she crossed the threshold of Dalmore,’ said 
Lady Ailsa sadly. ‘ I ask no more from Macdonald but that he 
will give Sheila back to those who love her. The more needful 
she is of anything we have to share with her, the more welcome 
she will be to it, and she knows it. If I have one wish in this 
world, Ellen Macleod, it is that, after Sheila parts from her 
father, — and that parting, I fear, is near at hand, — she may have 


AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER. 189 

no more dealings with this house or with any bearing its 

J 

name. 

A sneering smile, which stung Lady Ailsa to the quick, was 
Ellen Macleod’s only reply to that passionate speech. At that 
moment, Cameron, trembling and anxious, appeared at the 
library door. 

‘ Oh, my lady, please come in. The Laird will not be quiet 
till you come. He is much worse,’ she said, with an expressive 
glance at Mrs. Macleod, who instantly entered the dining- 
room and slammed the door. 

Lady Ailsa at once went to the Laird’s room, and, sitting 
down by the bed, laid her cool, soft hand on his fevered brow. 
She was an angel in a sick-room : her every movement, the soft 
swaying of her garments even, seemed to waft peace to the 
sufferer blessed by her presence. 

‘Not a word, Macdonald, not one until you are quiet/ she 
said, with that sweet authority it was a delight to obey. 

‘ Yes, yes/ she added soothingly, ‘ she is gone. She will not 
come here again, and I am going to stay till Sheila comes/ 

He lay back among his pillows, contented by her presence 
and by the assurance she so readily gave. In the brief silence 
which ensued, she too noticed the change wrought since she 
saw him last a few weeks after Sheila left Dalmore. He was 
still labouring under the excitement his sister had caused, his 
breathing was hurried and difficult, and his eyes rolling rest- 
lessly, while his hands and head were in a burning fever. 

‘You’ll stay and take care of Sheila?’ he said at length, in a 
1 mrried whisper. 

‘Yes, yes; Sheila belongs to us. She will be your legacy 
to me, will she not?’ asked Lady Ailsa, with a faint, sad 
smile. 

He nodded. 

‘ Her mother would wish it, but she was not afraid to leave 
her with me. Do you remember when you wanted to take her 
away to Murrayshaugh, but the bairn would rather bide with 
me?? said Macdonald, smiling a little too. He was much quieter 
already, and Lady Ailsa believed it would be better to allow 
him to talk a little, provided dangerous topics were avoided. 


190 


SHEILA . 


4 Yes, I remember. Ay, Sheila loves you with a daughter’s 
love. This will be a sore shock to her/ 

* You have sent for her ? ’ 

‘Yes, Sir Douglas himself has gone for her. He has some 
business which made the journey not unprofitable/ 

4 How soon will she be here ? ’ 

4 To-morrow, perhaps in the evening, if there is no delay/ 

‘Ay, ay ; nobody knows what it was to me to let her away ; 
but I did not want to be selfish.’ 

4 If I could have foreseen this, Macdonald, I would have been 
the last to have advocated sending her from you. I did it for 
the best/ 

4 1 know that you are a good woman and a true friend, Ailsa 
Murray. She said so. You’ll see that I am laid in the same 
grave. Promise that/ 

4 Yes, yes/ 

Lady Ailsa’s tears choked her utterance. There was some- 
thing indescribably pathetic in the man’s intense, undying devo- 
tion to the memory of his wife. He had indeed loved not 
wisely but too well. 

4 1 know now, looking back, that I have done but sorry duty 
in the world since she left me/ he said, after a moment. 4 If I 
had it to do again, I would try to bestir myself. But it was so 
sudden, so awful, it took the heart clean out of me. They 
will not punish me, will they, by parting us in the other world V 

4 Who are they , Macdonald ? God is very merciful, far more 
merciful to us, in spite of our shortcomings, than we are to 
each other/ said Lady Ailsa reverently. 4 He forgives unto 
seventy times seven/ 

4 He will forgive me, then/ said Macdonald, in a strange, 
drowsy tone. 4 It’ll be all right about Sheila, Ailsa. Nobody 
can touch her/ 

4 Macdonald, I hope you have not forgotten your own/ said 
Lady Ailsa quickly, for a dread seized her that the Laird’s 
faculties were wandering. 4 Don’t let your love for Sheila make 
you unjust to others. I hope that fine lad, Fergus Macleod, 
will fill your place as worthily as Laird of Dalmore/ 

Macdonald muttered a few words she could not make out. 


AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER. 


191 

and then, turning on his pillow, closed his eyes. He lay so still 
she feared he had slipped away, but when she laid her hand on 
his heart, it was still feebly pulsing. 

From that hour a weight lay upon Lady Ailsa’s heart. She 
hoped, nay, the hope was almost a passionate prayer, that, in his 
anger and sore pain against his sister, Macdonald had not 
visited the mother’s sin upon the head of her noble, generous- 
hearted son, and cut him off from Dalmore. 




CHAPTER XXI. 

* FAREWELL TO LOCHABER.’ 

There’s a track upon the deep, and a path across the sea ; 

But the weary ne’er return to their ain countrie. 

Gilfillan. 


IIE day wore on, and Fergus waited at Shonnen for 
his mothers return. When it grew grey dark, he 
put on his cap and sauntered away up by Amulree, 
to see if she was in sight on the road. The inn 
was very busy, for the folks had gathered in at the gloaming 
to discuss the affairs of the place. There was plenty to talk 
about: the departure of the Fauld folks, and the Laird’s 
mortal illness, gave rise to that morbid speculation in which 
the soul of the village gossip delights. Fergus heard his own 
name as he passed by the open door, but only smiled a little 
and passed on. His interest was centred in Dalmore. What 
could be keeping his mother? What if a reconciliation has 
been effected between her and his uncle ? The thought made 
his pulses tingle, for it opened up a new and beautiful vista. 
He saw his uncle restored to health, himself and his mother at 
home again in Dalmore, and Sheila with them. Ah, it was 
only a bright dream, never to be fulfilled. He passed on to 
the school, and sauntered along in the sweet spring dusk to the 
Girron Brig, and, after pausing for a few minutes to watch 
his old friends the trouts playing themselves in the cool, clear 

192 




‘ FAREWELL TO LOC HABER. } 


i93 


little currents, he crossed over and began to climb the hill to 
the house. He seemed impelled to it without any active desire 
on his own part. There were green buds and tender young 
shoots on all the trees, and the birds, harbingers of summer, 
were twittering in every bough. The earth was full of promise 
— it was the spring-time of the year. As Fergus turned round 
the sharp curve of the avenue, he saw a figure walking to and 
fro before the house, and recognised Lady Ailsa Murray, though 
he had not seen her for years. When she turned she saw him, 
and came to meet him with a kind smile and outstretched hand. 
She did not like Ellen Macleod, but she was too just a woman 
to allow this to prejudice her against the son. 

‘How are you, Fergus? I am so glad to see you. It is 
quite a long time since we met/ 

‘Yes; but you are just the same,’ said Fergus quickly, and 
his eye shone, for the kind, sweet, motherly tone went to his 
heart. 

‘ A little older, I think/ she said gently. ‘ You are grown 
almost out of all recognition. I have been anxious to see you 
for a long time. Alastair speaks so much about you/ 

‘ Yes ; Alastair is my chum/ 

‘ I am glad of it. You will be able to come down to 
Murrayshaugh, I hope, before the holidays are over. You 
have come to ask for your uncle, I suppose ? ’ 

‘ Yes, and to see why my mother stays so long. Is she here, 
Lady Ailsa? * 

‘Yes/ A cloud crossed the sunshine on Lady Ailsa’s face. 
‘If you go into the house you will see her. Your uncle is 
very ill, Fergus/ 

‘ I know he is, Lady Ailsa/ answered the boy, and turned his 
face away. 

‘You saw him last night, I think, Mrs. Cameron said?’ 

‘ Yes/ 

‘Fergus/ said Lady Ailsa, and she laid her white, gentle 
hand on his arm, and bent her soft eyes full on his face, ‘ I am 
your true friend, my boy. You believe I wish you well?' 

‘I know it/ said Fergus, with boyish impulsiveness. 

From the drawing-room window, Ellen Macleod saw the two 

17 


194 


SHEILA. 


together, and wondered what was passing between them. Lady 
Ailsa’ s action, and the earnest, beautiful look on Fergus’s up- 
turned face, struck her. She had never called forth such a 
look on her son’s face. 

l I am growing very anxious about some things, Fergus,’ 
continued Lady Ailsa. ‘You know your uncle cannot live 
long now ? * 

Fergus nodded. 

4 1 doubt there will be trouble about the parting of Dalmore. 
Do you think you are your uncle’s heir ? * 

‘I don’t know, Lady Ailsa. There is Sheila,’ said the lad, 
and his lip quivered. She was touching a very tender part. 

4 Fergus, I pray that Graham Macdonald has not done this 
wrong ! ’ said Lady Ailsa passionately. 4 Sheila has no right to 
Dalmore, and it would make a fearful dispeace. If it is done, 
there is nothing to remedy it now, unless there should be a 
miraculous betterment in your uncle’s condition. Whatever 
happens, Fergus, you will know that neither Sheila nor her 
relatives had any desire after Graham Macdonald’s possessions. 
It is my prayer that she will be restored to us penniless. We 
love her for herself.* 

4 But if Uncle Graham wished Sheila to have Dalmore, Lady 
Ailsa, we can’t help it. I would rather Sheila had it than any- 
body. She is so good and kind to the people in Achnafauld.’ 

4 God bless you, Fergus Macleod ! I pray to see you Laird 
of Dalmore,’ said Lady Ailsa, with full eyes, and, bending down, 
she kissed the boy’s bread forehead with a mother’s kiss ; and 
Ellen Macleod saw her do it, and hated her yet more. Not 
content with all she had done, would she try to win the boy 
over, and make him a traitor to his race ? 

When Fergus went into the house, he found his mother in 
no amiable mood. Her self-chosen position was not enviable 
nor pleasant. She had forced herself into the house, and knew 
that it was only because its master believed her to be gone that 
there was peace in the sick-room. But she had set herself a 
task, and, with the indomitable will which ruled her, she would 
perform it to the bitter end. 

4 What is it now?* she asked Fergus, when he came into the 


« FAREWELL TO LOCHABER .’ 


195 


drawing-room. 4 1 saw you and Lady Ailsa talking quite 
confidentially. What was she saying to you?’ 

‘Not much, mother. Are you going to stay here all night? ’ 

4 Yes. My place is here until your uncle’s end comes. It 
will not be very long. But you must go back to Shonnen and 
take care of the house.’ 

4 Have you seen Uncle Graham, mother ? ’ 

4 Yes. His heart is completely poisoned against us, Fergus 
Macleod. These Murrays have worked their will with him. 
I doubt you will be the sufferer; but I will hold my peace 
until all is over, and the result known. There is no use for 
you waiting here.’ 

4 No. I am going,’ said Fergus, but still lingered, looking 
about the pretty quaint room, which was filled with sweet 
memories of Sheila and her mother. 

4 A bonnie gimcrackery they’ve made of this room,’ said 
Ellen Macleod grimly. 4 If this is fashionable taste, preserve 
me from it! Good-night then, Fergus. If I am not down 
myself in the morning, send Jessie up with some things for me ; 
she will know' what to bring.’ 

So Fergus had just to go away back by the road he had 
come. He had no heart to go along to Achnafauld, for he 
knew the folks would be sad enough in spirit over the parting 
from the only homes they had ever known. He went to bed 
early, leaving strict injunctions with Jessie Mackenzie to awake 
him at five o’clock. The carts were to leave the Fauld at six 
o’clock, to convey the folks down to Dunkeld station in time 
to get the first train. The ship in which they were to cross 
the ocean was to sail from the Broomielaw late that night, 
or before sunrise next morning. Never had fairer morning 
dawned than the second of April ; the sunshine and the joyful 
chorus of the birds aw r oke Fergus, and he was up before Jessie 
was stirring down-stairs. When he pulled up the blind, the 
morning sun was glittering on the loch and lighting up the 
bonnie trees about Achnafauld, as if to make the place look its 
fairest for the eyes that were to look upon it for the last time. 
There was no sign of mourning anywhere: the sun w r as up, the 
sky brilliantly blue, save where the fleecy shafts relieved it / 


196 


SHEILA. 


and there was a soft west wind stirring all the young leaves, 
and whispering of the summer. It was almost impossible to 
be sad amid such light and sunshine, and Fergus felt glad 
for the exiles’ sakes, knowing their hearts would be heavy 
enough without any depressing influences from without. From 
the high windows of the Lodge he could see right across the 
river to Achnafauld, and when the carts, five in number, set 
out in a long string from the clachan, he ran hurriedly 
down-stairs to awaken Jessie, and to get on his boots. He 
wanted to be down the road a bit before he had to bid them 
good-bye, for all the Amulree folks would be out, and he did 
not want them to hear anything he might say. He w r alked 
slowly, often looking back to see the little train gradually 
approaching Amulree. He could hear the distant strains of 
the pipes, and guessed that it was blind Rob playing a farewell 
blast for his friends and comrades, who were going to a land 
where the sound of the pibroch would never ring in their ears 
save in memory alone. 

When out of sight, Fergus sat down on a heap of stones and 
began whittling a stick with his knife, to keep his fingers in 
occupation, for he was growing curiously nervous and excited. 
He had laid this thing to heart, and w r as convinced in his own 
mind that a grievous wrong had been done to the Fauld folks. 
It seemed a long time before the rumble of the carts sounded 
in the near distance. There were so many hand-shakings, and 
then a halt had to be made at the inn, where M‘Dougall gave 
them cakes all round for auld acquaintance' sake. But on 
they came at last, and then Fergus got up to his feet, for His 
heart was full. In the first cart were Jamie Stewart and his 
ailing wife, wrapped in so many shawls that she looked like a 
mummy, but her pale face wore a contented look, as if she were 
glad to get away from the place. Her bairns were all with her, 
and by her side her daughter-in-law, young Rob’s wife, who 
had looked forward to being mistress of Little Turrich. In the 
second cart, the smith’s broad face shone red and rosy undei 
his big Tam o’ Shanter; but Mary’s eyes were swollen and red, 
for she had bidden good-bye for ever to a wee grave in the 
kirkyard at Shian, where her first and last bairn slept. 


« FAREWELL TO LOCHABER: 


197 


She had a root of heather from that little mound in her kist, 
and it was her hope and prayer that that root would take kindly 
to Canadian soil, and so make a bit of home for her in the 
strange land. Ewan M l Fadyen’s soul had failed him at the last 
moment, so he was not of the number, but there was a goodly 
band, — five-and-twenty souls in all, — big brawny men, sonsy 
wives, and bonnie healthy-faced bairns, who would make a grand 
living for themselves under fair conditions anywhere. The gain 
would be entirely theirs, the loss to the country that was letting 
so much of its best blood go forth from it. 

‘There he is, bless him! ’ they cried, as Fergus stood still in 
the road, and took off his bonnet as he gave them greeting. 
Then Rob the piper ceased his strain, and the carts came to 
a standstill, and a score of hands were outstretched to bid 
good-bye to the ‘young Laird,’ as he was always called in the 
Fauld. 

4 We kenned ye wad turn up to wush us weel, lad,’ cried the 
smith. ‘ We’ll never forget ye, Maister Fergus. Ye hae aye 
been oor freenV 

‘ No, don’t forget me. Some day, when I’m a man, I’ll come 
out and see you all,’ answered Fergus, and there was a sus- 
picious trembling in his voice, for the women were all crying, 
and he could see quite well that the men were feeling the trial 
quite as keenly, if they made less outward sign. 

4 Cheer up!’ cried Fergus. ‘You’ll all grow rich and be 
lairds in your own right out there.’ 

4 Ay, ay ; but if we had our choice, lad, we ken whaur we 
wad fain be, an’ under which laird,’ said Rory Maclean, stroking 
his long yellow beard, and looking with mournful significance at 
Fergus. 

4 But we hae muckle to be thankful for, for we are no’ gaun 
to a new country like beggars,’ said the smith. 4 Eh, lad, John 
Morrison will never shae your meer when ye get her as I 
wad. He’ll never be a smith ; but he’ll hae some fun wi’ 
the smiddy lum.’ 

This made a bit laugh among them, and before it had quite 
died away the carts moved on, and Rob struck up ‘Lochaber no 
more.’ Then all eyes were turned back, for in a moment the 


198 


SHEILA. 


Keeper’s Wood would hide boimie Glenquaich from their sight 
for evermore. 

Then Fergus, with the salt tears blinding his eyes, waved a 
last good-bye, and turned back towards Shonnen. And so the first 
pioneers from Glenquaich set out for that far land across the 
seas which was to be a kinder mother to them than old Scotland 
had been. As the carts lumbered slowly down Dalreoch Brae 
to the strains of Rob’s mournful piping, a carriage and pair came 
rapidly up the road. It was closed, but at the sound of the 
pipes a fair young face peered out in wondering surprise. ‘ Oh, 
Uncle Douglas, tell him to stop ! ’ she cried excitedly. ‘ It is the 
people of Achnafauld going away to America, I am sure. I must 
speak to them.’ 

Sir Douglas, a little cross and tired with his hurried journey- 
ing, gave the order rather ungraciously, and when the carriage 
stopped Sheila opened the door and ran up the road to meet the 
carts. At sight of her a cheer broke forth from the travellers, 
the women ceased their low, mournful crooning of a Gaelic dirge, 
and their faces brightened at sight of that sweet, earnest 
young faco, in which love and sorrow for them was so plainly 
expressed. 

She had to go round and round shaking hands with every 
one, though I do not think she spoke many words. Her heart 
was full to overflowing, and she was just beginning to realize 
how fraught life is with hard experiences and bitter sorrows. 
But it was a satisfaction to her and to them to have that last 
good-bye. Sir Douglas Murray leaned back in the carriage, and 
did not look out while that scene was being enacted. Alastair’s 
child was a very odd little girl, he had thought more than once 
since they had begun their hurried journey to Dalmore, but he 
did not trouble himself about her. 

‘Well, my dear, have you got your leave-takings over?’ he 
said good-humouredly, when she took her seat again beside him. 

‘ Yes, uncle,’ was all she said, in a very quiet, self-possessed 
manner. 

He wondered why she was not crying over it, but her face 
was very grave and white, and she folded her hands on her 
knees, and sat up in a curious, composed way, which made her 


1 FAREWELL TO LOCHABER? 


199 

uncle look at her again. She was certainly odd. She had the 
dignity and self-command of a person thrice her years. 

‘Oh, Uncle Douglas, tell him to stop again ! ’ she cried quite 
suddenly, just when they were past the inn. ‘There is Fergus ; 
I must stop and speak to Fergus/ 

‘ My dear Sheila, you are a perfect nuisance,’ said Sir Douglas. 

‘ When do you suppose we’ll get to Dalmore at this rate ? ’ 

But Sheila never heard him. She was leaning half out of the 
carriage window, with her hat pushed back, and the sweet 
morning wind tossing her brown hair on her white brow, her 
eyes shining with real gladness at sight of her old companion 
and friend. 

‘ Sheila ! ’ cried Fergus, and with a bound he was at the 
carriage door, and they clasped hands in silence, though their 
eyes were eloquently speaking. 

‘Oh, Fergus, I met the people. Did you see them? All the 
little Stewarts, and poor Eppie Maclean, with her lame leg. 
How awfully lonely and empty the Fauld will be, won’t it, now ? ’ 

‘Ay, it will,’ Fergus said a little gruffly, to hide the emotion 
he had not mastered yet. 

‘ And poor papa,’ said Sheila, the tears welling in her soft, 
beautiful eyes. ‘ Oh, Fergus, how sad it is to live in this world, 
isn’t it ? ’ 

Poor young things ! Their early days were being darkly 
shadowed. The reality and solemn earnestness of human life 
was being forced upon them before they had tasted much of its 
gladsome joy. 

‘Were you going up to Dalmore, Fergus? Will you come 
in? There’s only Uncle Douglas,’ said Sheila, but ‘Uncle 
Douglas ’ never looked out. 

‘ No, I was not going up just now. I’ll come up by and by, 
Sheila, and see you.’ 

‘Oh, do, very soon, dear Fergus! Good-bye just now,’ said 
Sheila, and then the carriage rolled on again, and Fergus was 
left alone in the road. But somehow Sheila had comforted him. 
She alone understood and shared his feelings for the Fauld folk, 
and it is a great thing when an earnest soul finds its fellow ; of 
course it can have but one issue, but the bairns were too young 


200 


SHEILA. 


yet to know the meaning of the curious yearning each had 
towards the other. Ah, they would understand it soon enough. 

Sheila never spoke another word till they drove up to the 
door of Dalmore, and she sprang with a great sob into Aunt 
Ailsa’s arms. 

4 My darling, keep quiet ! Don’t tremble so, my sweet,’ said 
Aunt Ailsa, in those exquisite, tender tones which were like 
softest music. 4 Come in, come in ; you are so tired, my 
precious. But Aunt Ailsa is here.’ 

4 Yes, yes, I will be quiet. Can I see papa just now, Aunt 
Ailsa? I don’t think I can wait.’ 

4 Only till you eat a morsel of breakfast, dear/ 

4 Aunt Ailsa, I couldn’t take it. It would choke me. I am 
not hungry or tired or anything. Just let me go to papa. Oh, 
auntie, such a long, long, long journey 1 It seems like years 
since we left London.’ 

4 Yes, dear, you were anxious to be home. I am so thankful 
you have come. Just in time, Sheila, just in time to say 
good-bye.’ 

4 1 knew it,’ said Sheila quietly, as she laid off her hat, and 
smoothed her bright hair with hurried hands. ‘Aunt Ailsa, 
I ought never to have gone away. I shall never forgive 
myself.’ 

4 Hush, hush ! that was for the best. This way, Sheila. Have 
you forgotten where papa’s rooms are ? ’ 

At that moment Ellen Macleod came sweeping down the front 
staircase. Sheila only looked at her for a moment with startled 
eyes, and then passed through the library door. She no longer 
feared the strong, black-browed woman whom Fergus called 
4 mother,’ but the memory of that cruel blow was burned into 
her heart. 

4 Just go in, Sheila. I shall wait here. I think the doctor is 
in,’ whispered Lady Ailsa. 

Sheila nodded, and walked with steady step into the chamber 
of the dying Laird. 

The doctor and the housekeeper were standing by the bed. 
Macdonald, after a paroxysm of breathlessness, was lying white 
and still as death. Sheila stepped forward and silently knelt 


1 FAREWELL TO LOC HABER , 9 


2CI 


down by the bed. She made no noise, but the sense of her 
beloved presence was with Macdonald, and he opened his eyes. 
The other two silently withdrew. Then Sheila bent over and 
laid her quivering lips to his brow. 

‘ Papa ! oh, dear papa ! ’ 

‘My Sheila! My ain bairn! It is well,’ said the Laird, in 
tones of deep content. He laid his feeble hand on her bonnie 
head, and his lips moved. He was blessing her. She felt it, 
though she could not hear any words. 

There was a deep silence in the room, and then a slight 
struggle (harbinger of the end) shook Macdonald’s wasted frame 
once more. 

‘ Go away, Sheila ; good-bye,’ he said, with extreme difficulty. 
‘ Fergus — be good to him ; will in — ’ 

He stopped and pointed vaguely round him. It was a last 
effort. Sheila shivered and fell upon her knees, covering her 
face with her hands. The others came hurriedly in. Aunt 
Ailsa put her arm round the kneeling girl and laid her gentle 
hand on her head. Sir Douglas stood by with folded arms, and 
in a few minutes the last struggle was over, and Macdonald had 
closed his eyes for ever on Dalmore. 




CHAPTER XXIL 

sheila’s inheritance. 

The best laid schemes o' mice an* men 

Gang aft agley. Burns. 

N the library of Dalmore, on the afternoon of the 
fifth of April, there was gathered a party of nine 
persons. They were Sir Douglas and Lady Murray, 
with their son Alastair, and Sheila, Ellen Macleod 
and Fergus, Mr. Macfarlane, the minister of Amulree, Angus 
M‘Bean, the factor, and David Colquhoun, the writer from 
Perth. All were in deep mourning ; the gentlemen had just 
returned from the churchyard at Shian, where they had laid the 
Laird of Dalmore to his rest. Dinner was also over. Mr. 
Colquhoun had suggested that dinner should be served before 
the will was read, knowing very well that after the scene which 
would take place in the library these nine persons would never 
again break bread under the same roof-tree. For the first 
time for many years, Ellen Macleod once more presided at the 
table in the house of Dalmore. She was very gracious, even 
to the Murrays; she believed that their day was completely 
over. She did not wish it more fervently than they ; their hope 
was that Fergus Macleod would prove to be his uncle’s sole 
heir. They loved Sheila as their own child, and wished for 
nothing more than to take her away from Dalmore with them, 

as such, that very night. Lady Ailsa hoped and even prayed 

202 



SHEILA'S INHERITANCE. 


203 


for it, but did not expect it. A great fear lav upon her. She 
ate nothing at the table, and could scarcely take part in 
the quiet desultory talk which beguiled the hour. She was 
almost sick with apprehension, when they rose at length and 
filed into the library. There w r as no lingering at the table, the 
meal being purely formal. The moment dessert was over, 
Ellen Macleod rose and led the way from the room. She 
looked majestic in her stiff, trailing robe of black silk, with it3 
heavy trimmings of crape. She moved with a consciousness of 
power and place, which gave Lady Ailsa a kind of fearsome 
amusement. Sheila looked exquisitely lovely in her plain 
black frock, kept close by her aunt, and sat beside her on the 
settee which stood in the square window of the library. Ellen 
Macleod seated herself near the table ; the gentlemen all stood. 
There was an air of expectancy about them all, and Angus 
M‘Bean was visibly excited. The two young persons most 
deeply and immediately interested were the most unconscious 
present. 

‘ We are all ready, Mr. Colquhoun/ said Ellen Macleod, 
when the laywer seemed to hesitate a little as he opened out 
the bundle of documents he held in his hand. 

‘Yes, madam; I shall not detain you long/ replied the 
lawyer courteously. ‘ The will itself is very brief and simple ; 
whether it will be satisfactory or not to all present I cannot 
say.* 

He cleared his throat a little, and straightened his high 
collar as if it impeded his utterance. Lady Ailsa clasped her 
hands almost convulsively over Sheila’s, and leaned forward, her 
face pale with her intense excitement. Ellen Macleod had her 
hands placidly folded on the table ; her face wore an expression 
of expectant complacency. Fergus was standing in the little 
corner window with his back to the company. He could see 
right up Glenquaich to the trees at Shian, and the sunlight 
■was striking on the little burying-ground. He even fancied he 
could see the mound of the new-made grave. The lawyer’s 
voice recalled his wandering thoughts. 

‘I, Graham James Macdonald of Dalmore and Findowie, 
declare this to be my last will and testament, for which all other 


204 


SHEILA . 


documents whatsoever must be set aside. I leave to Jane 
Cameron, my housekeeper, the sum of two hundred pounds, for 
her faithful attendance upon me. To John Macfarlane, the 
minister of Amulree, two hundred pounds, on condition that he 
acts as trustee on my estate ; to my nephew, Fergus Macleod, 
presently residing at Shonnen Lodge, a thousand pounds, to 
stock the farm of which he spoke to me ; and lastly, to my 
well-beloved daughter, Sheila Murray Macdonald, the lands and 
estates of Dalmore and Findowie, together with all furnishings 
and plate and plenishing, and the entire residue of my estates, 
both personal and monetary, absolutely for her own use and 
benefit. I only ask that she shall retain Angus M‘Bean of 
Auchloy as her steward until she shall reach the age of 
twenty-one, when she can act upon her own discretion.’ 

There was a moment’s absolute silence when the lawyer 
ceased speaking. He was the first to break it by rising and 
approaching Sheila with outstretched hand. 

‘ I congratulate you, Miss Murray Macdonald, upon your 
inheritance/ he said. Then Ellen Macleod rose slowly and 
majestically from her seat and faced those in the front window. 
Involuntarily Sir Douglas moved towards his wife. Fergus 
turned from his post and looked at his mother’s face. It was 
absolutely colourless, but her eyes were like burning coal. 
Both hands, held straightly by her sides, were clenched until 
the nails were driven into the palms. 

‘ David Colquhoun,’ she said, and her very voice seemed 
changed, ‘I give notice that in my son’s name I contest this 
will.’ 

‘ Madam, if I may be permitted to advise, I say no/ said the 
lawyer quietly. ‘The will is perfectly valid, and not unjust.’ 

‘ Not unjust ! ’ screamed Ellen Macleod, her anger bursting 
forth like a fierce flame. ‘ Not unjust, David Colquhoun, for 
a man to pass by and slight his own for those who have no 
claim upon him 1 Not unjust! There is no court in Scotland 
which, knowing the circumstances, would hesitate to set it 
aside on account of undue influence. My brother’s long illness 
weakened his intellect, and these people have turned it to their 
own advantage.’ 


SHEILAS INHERITANCE. 


205 


4 Have a care, Mrs. Macleod ; your charges are actionable/ 
said Sir Douglas Murray, with haughty stiffness. 4 Be pleased 
to remember of whom you are speaking, and be more 
careful.* 

4 1 know very well of whom I am speaking, Sir Douglas 
Murray, but I do not so particularly blame you/ said Ellen 
Macleod, sweeping him a little haughty curtsey, which made 
his proud cheek redden. 4 Ailsa Murray, will you answer me a 
question ? Do you consider the will which has just been read 
as perfectly fair and just ? ’ 

Lady Ailsa rose, and Sheila, slipping her hand from her 
aunt’s, went across the room to Fergus. For a moment her 
action was scarcely noticed. Ellen Macleod engrossed all 
attention. 

4 Ellen Macleod, it has been my unceasing hope and prayer 
that Macdonald would not make Sheila his heiress/ said Lady 
Ailsa sadly. 4 1 have never ceased to urge upon him his 
nephew’s claim. It is to me a greater grief even than his 
death.’ 

4 These are fine words, Ailsa Murray, but they are only 
words/ said Ellen Macleod, with a bitter sneer. 4 But let that 
white*faced child not be too proud of her inheritance. There 
is a curse — the curse of the wronged and the robbed — upon 
Dalmore and upon her.’ 

4 Look at these two, Ellen Macleod, and if you have a 
woman’s heart pray to God to forgive your cruelty/ said Lady 
Ailsa, with brimming eyes, and pointing to the window recess 
where Sheila and Fergus stood side by side, Sheila with her 
slim girlish hand laid upon the arm of Fergus, and her sweet 
eyes uplifted to his face. 

The abrupt silence arrested Sheila. She looked round, and 
then crossed the room again with a steady step. There was a 
dignity and grace about her which impressed all present. She 
stepped into the little circle, and directly faced the lawyer and 
the angry mistress of Shonnen. There was a breathless silence, 
which her sweet young voice immediately broke. 

4 Mr. Colquhoun/ she said clearly and distinctly, 4 am I the 
mistress of Dalmore ? ’ 


206 


SHEILA . 


The lawyer bowed his head. He had witnessed many curious 
scenes, but never one like this. 

4 Can I do what I like with it? ’ 

4 It is bequeathed to you absolutely for your own use and 
benefit, Miss Murray Macdonald,* he answered, quoting the 
terms of the will. Sheila turned aside. As she passed by 
Ellen Macleod she drew in her dress, lest it should touch the 
stiff, aggressive skirts of that relentless woman. 

‘Fergus, you hear!* she said, touching Fergus on the arm 
again. ‘Dalmore is mine. I give it to you, so it does not 
belong to me any more. I know you love it, dear Fergus, and 
I give it to you.’ 

There was something indescribably pathetic in the look which 
passed between these two young things, just standing on the 
threshold of manhood and womanhood, and too early thrust 
upon its cares. 

Fergus never spoke ; but those who were present long 
remembered the expression upon his face. 

4 You’re a brick, Sheila ! ’ cried the boyish, matter-of-fact voice 
of Alastair Murray. It broke the strain. Sheila smiled wanly, 
and with tottering steps came back to Lady Ailsa and fell 
upon her breast. 

‘Take me away, Aunt Ailsa, take me away ! ’ she sobbed, her 
whole form shaking. 4 1 am afraid of her. Take me away.* 

Lady Ailsa wound her arm about the girl’s quivering form 
and led her out of the room. When the door closed there was 
an awkward and uncomfortable pause. Ellen Macleod was 
rebuked in her inmost heart, but it suited her to assume a 
haughty scorn of the whole proceedings. 

4 Gentlemen, I fancy we. need not prolong this interview ? ’ said 
the lawyer, looking inquiringly round. 

4 1 should imagine not. It has not been particularly pleasant, 
thanks to you, madam,* said Sir Douglas, looking fixedly at 
Ellen Macleod. 

She merely shrugged her shoulders in reply. 

4 Mr. Colquhoun, I repeat that I intend to contest this will,’ 
she said pointedly to the lawyer. 

‘Madam, no respectable practitioner would assist you, much 


SHEILA'S INHERITANCE. 


207 


less any court of justice entertain your claim,’ retorted the 
lawyer, for she wearied and disgusted him. 4 Besides, your son, 
I fancy, would not support the claim you would raise on his 
behalf.* 

‘My son has a craven spirit. He should have flung bach the 
insulting offer in the teeth of the child who made it,’ said Ellen 
Macleod, her anger rising again. 4 Receive a gift of his own, 
indeed, and to stand by tamely and hear it! I am ashamed of 
my son, Mr. Colquhoun.* 

4 Unless I am mistaken, he is ashamed of you,* said the 
lawyer shortly. He was grieved and sorry for the boy, who 
had been obliged to witness this unseemly scene and keep 
silent. There was a look of intense misery on his face, noted 
by all present. He turned about when the lawyer spoke, and 
went out of the room. Alastair slipped after him, and outside 
the door caught him and put his arm through his. 

4 Never mind, old boy, don’t take on,’ he said eagerly and 
affectionately. 4 Everybody understands you, and — ’ He 
paused suddenly, for it would hardly do to say anything to 
Fergus about his own mother. 

4 And what a mother ! ’ as Alastair remarked privately to his 
brothers that night. 4 1 tell you it’s rough on a fellow having 
such an out-and-out Tartar of a mother.’ 

4 Alastair,’ said Fergus wearily, 4 let me alone. I — I can’t 
speak to you just now.’ 

‘I see you’re dreadfully cut up, but don’t mind. Everybody 
knows you’re a brick,’ said Alastair quickly. 4 But, I say, isn’t 
Sheila a stunner, and didn’t she give it hot to — ’ 

Another abrupt pause. 

4 I’d better get out, or I’ll put my foot in it,* muttered 
Alastair to himself. Fergus had not noticed it, however. But 
what he thought of Sheila nobody would ever know until the 
day came when he told Sheila herself. But that chance did not 
coine for a long time. 

4 Well, I’ll leave you, for I see I*m a bore. Mind you 
promised to come over to Murraysbaugh, and don’t be cut up. 
It’ll all come right — everything always does.’ With which 
cheerful philosophy good-natured Alastair shook his friend 


208 


SHEILA. 


warmly by the hand and departed- Fergus walked on a few 
steps, and then, finding he was beginning to descend the 
hill, he paused for a moment as if undecided what to do. He 
looked across to Shonnen. There was no comfort there. His 
mother would follow soon ; and, God help the lad ! at that 
moment he shrank from his mother with his whole soul. He 
turned round, and cut his way through the thicket to the 
heathery steep behind the house. Up, up. At the very crest 
of Crom Creagli he would be safe. He must be alone for a 
little, for there was a tumult raging in his soul. He took 
notice as he went of the fresh green shoots on the heather, and 
that here and there a daisy and a buttercup were in flower. The 
sweet spring day was passing fair and full of divinest promise, 
but his mind was dull and forlorn. He felt very des late upon 
the face of the earth. His strong young limbs soon climbed the 
steep ascent, and among the boulders and rough bracken on the 
very summit of the hill he sat him down. A ewe and her 
twin lambs, grown strong and sturdy with the genial sun, eyed 
him in mild surprise, but did not appear timid in his presence. 
He sat down on a stone, and, taking off his cap, allowed the 
grand healthful wind to blow about him. Even in the ab- 
solute calm of a summer’s day it was always breezy up Crom 
Creagh. 

Away up bonnie Glenquaich the sun shone radiantly, the 
loch glowed and flashed like burnished silver, and the winding 
river made a silver thread, too, among the green meadow-lands 
on either side. He was looking straight down on Achnafauld, 
and mechanically counted sixteen 4 reeking lums ’ where there 
had been formerly four-and -twenty. There were seven empty 
houses in the clachan, and the beginning of Rob’s prophecy*’ was 
fulfilled. Glenquaich ! which he loved and had hoped to call 
his own. That brief, bright dream was over, and it belonged to 
Sheila now. Memories crowded upon the lad, for when hope 
seems quenched memory sometimes has a healing touch. They 
were tender memories of Uncle Graham and of his sweet wife, 
who were sleeping now side by side in Shian, reunited by 
death. 

Through the blinding tears which had broken down the 


SHEILAS INHERITANCE. 


209 


miserable stony calm that had bound him in the house, he 
presently caught sight of a horse and rider crossing the Girron 
Brig. It was Angus M‘Bean, the factor, away home to Auchloy. 
1 Ay, ay,’ he was muttering to himself. 1 One-and-twenty ! It’s 
a puir fushionless fowl that canna feather its nest in five 
years.* 


18 




CHAPTER XXITL 

PLANS. 

0 pusillanimous heart, be comforted, 

And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road, 

Singing beside the hedge. 

E. B. Browning. 

ADY ATLSA took Sheila lip to the drawing-room, 
and locked the door from within. Sitting down 
on a couch, she drew the poor sobbing child to her 
side, and let her cry until calmness came of its 

own accord. 

‘There now, Sheila, you are better now/ she said brightly. 
f A pretty way, young lady, to receive the announcement that 
you are a great heiress/ 

4 Aunt Ailsa, never, never say that again/ said Sheila quickly. 
4 1 am not a great heiress. Did you not hear me giving it all 
up to poor Fergus ? * 

4 Yes, I heard and loved you for it, my darling. There 
was hardly a dry eye in the room. Fergus himself will 
never forget it, or I am mistaken in him. But, Sheila, listen 
to me/ 

4 Yes, Aunt Ailsa/ 

4 You can no more set aside your father’s will than — than — 
any one else/ said Lady Ailsa, not caring to mention Ellen 

Macleod’s name. 4 You must be Lady of Dalmore and 

aio 




PLANS . 


2 II 


Findowie, whether you will or no. Cheer up, my darling, it is 
not a thing to break your heart about, I am sure/ 

‘ But Fergus, Aunt Ailsa ? ’ 

‘ My dear, Fergus will be the very last to grudge you your 
good fortune. I saw it in his eye. He is not his mother’s son 
in that, Sheila. And then, who knows, you may make it up 
to him some day/ 

‘If I can, I will, Aunt Ailsa,’ said the girl, grown much 
more composed, but still looking as if the thing weighed upon 
her heart. ‘Just at the last papa spoke of Fergus, and I 
thought he said something about a will. Perhaps he regretted 
he had not made it different. Aunt Ailsa, it is not fair that I 
should have Dalmore, you know; though he called me his 
daughter, I was not really that.’ 

‘You gave him a daughter’s duty and love, Sheila. My 
child, I assure you there is nothing to make yourself miserable 
about,’ said Lady Ailsa. ‘You are old enough to understand 
things now, and when I tell you that Fergus has been pun- 
ished for his mother’s sake, you will know quite well it is true. 
She was very unkind to your poor papa once when she had no 
cause/ 

‘ Poor Fergus ! ’ repeated Sheila, her heart aching for her 
old friend and playmate. It seemed to her a far greater 
sorrow to him to have such a mother than to have lost 
Dal more. 

‘ Aunt Ailsa, wasn’t it curious that papa mentioned in his 
will that Mr. M‘Bean must stay on?’ said Sheila musingly. 

‘ Yes, that is a pity ; but we can see about that after- 
wards.’ 

‘ If I had known this morning, when I met the people from 
the Fauld at Ballinreich, I should have asked them to go back,’ 
said Sheila, a new thought striking her. 

‘ Ay, very soon you will begin to exercise your privileges, 
Sheila,’ said Lady Ailsa, with a smile. ‘We women are very 
fond of the sweets of power. But I must go and see what your 
uncle is about; he will be chafing to get away. I suppose we 
must leave you behind ? ’ 

‘ In this house alone, Aunt Ailsa. I should die' 


212 


SHEILA. 


‘ Then will you go down to Murrayshaugh to-night ? ’ 

i If you will take me.’ 

‘ Of course I will. I saw Alastair’s face fall in the library 
once or twice. I fancied he thought this momentous day 
would make a serious change in his cousin. These boys adore 
you, Sheila, stupid fellows 1 but they never had a sister. Shall 
we go down now, then ? ’ 

‘ Do you think she will be away ? ’ asked Sheila fearfully, 
now beginning to tremble again. Ellen Macleod had filled the 
child’s heart with terror six years before, and had renewed it 
that day. 

‘Yes, yes. She will never stay; she knows the worst. I 
fancy Ellen Macleod will never be in Dalmore again unless 
some unlooked-for transformation takes place,’ said Lady Ailsa 
hastily. ‘ You must be a brave little woman now, Sheila ; 
remember, you have a position to uphold.’ 

Sheila sighed and shook her head. Her aunt thought how 
frail and slender she looked in her mourning, and how pale 
and even careworn her sweet face. She was very young to 
have such a responsibility laid upon her shoulders. Looking 
forward, Lady Ailsa could foresee nothing but greater care, and 
again wished passionately that Graham Macdonald had given 
back Sheila penniless as he had received her from the Murrays. 

She unlocked the drawing-room door, and they went down- 
stairs together again. The sound of voices guided them to 
the library; but, before letting Sheila enter, Lady Ailsa took 
the precaution to look in and make sure that Ellen Macleod 
had gone. In the far window, Sir Douglas, Mr. Macfarlane, 
and Mr. Colquhoun were talking together over the will. 
Alastair, after parting with Fergus, had sauntered round to 
the stables. Ellen Macleod had already crossed the Girron 
Brig on her way back to Shonnen Lodge, to which she was 
condemned for the rest of her life. We will not seek to follow 
her there, nor to analyze her thoughts. They were as dark 
as the depths of the loch made drumlie by a spate in winter. 
But she was to be pitied too. 

‘Well, young lady?’ said Sir Douglas, turning kindly to 
Sheila when they entered the room. ‘ I shouldn’t have dared 


PLANS. 


213 


to call you a perfect nuisance the other morning had I known 
what was in prospect for you.’ 

4 Don’t, Uncle Douglas,’ said Sheila, trying bravely to smile, 
but making rather a failure of it. 4 Where is Alastair ? ’ 

4 Oh, among the horses, likely. He went out after Fergus.’ 

Sheila’s face brightened. She was very fond of Alastair, 
though he teased her unmercifully, and she knew he would 
cheer up poor Fergus. Had she only seen poor Fergus then, 
toiling up the rocky brow of Crom Creagh, with a dark cloud 
on his face, her heart would have sunk within her. She did 
hear about that lonely vigil, but that was long after, when 
memory scarcely had a sting. In the meantime she was spared 
the full knowledge of her old friend’s suffering. 

4 When are we to go home, then ? ’ asked Sir Douglas, 
turning to his wife. 4 1 have offered Mr. Colquhoun a drive, 
but unless we can start within an hour it will be of no use 
to him.’ 

4 1 daresay we can be ready, Sheila and I,’ returned Lady 
Ailsa. 4 She will go down with us to-night ; we can easily 
come up when there is any need.’ 

Sir Douglas nodded, and the ladies again left the room. 
While Sheila went up to prepare, Lady Ailsa rang the house- 
keeper’s bell, and waited for her in the hall. 

4 Come in here, Mrs. Cameron,’ she said, when the house- 
keeper appeared, and, opening the dining-room door, motioned 
her to enter. 

4 The Laird’s will has just been read, Mrs. Cameron,’ said 
Lady Ailsa at once. 4 1 think it right to acquaint you with 
the contents. Miss Sheila has been left Lady of Dalmore.’ 

4 God bless the poor dear bairn,’ said Cameron, through her 
tears. 

4 She is greatly upset. I am afraid the thought is more a 
grief than a joy to her at present. We will take her away 
with us to-night. Don’t you think that will be best ? ’ 

4 Yes, my lady; it would be terribly lonesome for her here,’ 
said Cameron. 4 Pardon the question, Lady Ailsa, but is there 
anything for Mr. Fergus Macleod ? ’ 

4 A thousand pounds. It is an unspeakable regret to us all 


214 


SHEILA. 


that he is not now Laird of Dalmore,’ said Lady Ailsa, speaking 
out quite frankly to the faithful servant. ‘I did what I could 
to persuade the Laird. I fear, Cameron, that the innocent 
often suffer for the guilty in this world.’ 

‘ What did she say? Did she hear it read, my lady? ’ asked 
Cameron, with an eagerness she could not repress. 

‘ Yes ; but what she said is not worth repetition, Cameron,* 
returned Lady Ailsa quietly. ‘ I am truly sorry for her 
boy.’ 

‘And I, my lady, for oh, he has a true heart!’ said the 
housekeeper, with tears in her eyes, and thereupon recounted 
to Lady Ailsa what had happened on the day of Mrs. Mac- 
donald’s death, six years before. 

‘ This will be a sore blow to him, my lady, for he worships 
the very stones that lie about Dalmore. But it is a great 
joy to us to have such a sweet young lady as Miss Sheila 
over us.’ 

‘ She will be a gentle mistress, Cameron, and she will win 
the service of love,’ said Lady Ailsa, with. a smile. ‘I need not 
ask you to look faithfully to the house for her sake. She has 
not much interest in it just yet, but it will soon awaken. Let 
everything go on quietly as before, and you will hear from me 
from time to time. I do not expect that Sheila will stay very 
long at Murray shaugh.’ 

‘ Will she not go back to school, my lady ? ’ 

‘ I think not. She is really very highly accomplished for her 
years. We cannot lay any plans in the meantime, however, 
but we will let you know of any arrangements in good time.’ 

‘My lady, do you think Mrs. Macleod will come over?’ asked 
the housekeeper hesitatingly. 

‘ I do not think so, but if she does you must be very firm. 
She has no right in the house now. She has forfeited it by 
her own actions. Say you have your orders to admit no one 
without permission from your mistress, Miss Murray Mac- 
donald.* 

‘ Very well, my lady,’ said Cameron, with evident relief. 

‘ Oh, Cameron, am I not forgetting a very important part of 
to-day’s proceedings ! Mr. Macdonald has left you two hundred 


PLANS. 


215 


pounds for your faithful service, and I am sure you deserve it. 
I congratulate you with all my heart.’ 

‘No, no; I only did my duty for my dear lady’s sake, and 
he was a good master too,’ said Cameron hastily. ‘ I have 
never had so good a place, nor people I loved so well. I hope 
to live and die in Dalmore.’ 

‘ If you do, I hope you will see some happy changes to atone 
for the sorrows you have seen in Dalmore,’ said Lady Ailsa, 
and shook hands with the faithful servant as she turned 
to go. 

From that time, if not before, Jane Cameron would have laid 
down her life for Dalmore and its sweet mistress. She felt 
that an absolute trust was reposed in her, and that calls out 
whatever is noble in the nature of gentle or simple. 

Within the hour the carriage rolled away from Dalmore. 
Fergus saw it cross the Girron Brig, but, as it was half closed, 
he did not know Sheila was within. Just after sundown he 
rose and took his way down, not straight to the house, but by 
a slanting sheep-track which brought him out at Corrymuckloch 
Inn. Then he went over the hill-road to Achnafauld. Any- 
where, anywhere, rather than back to Shonnen. God help the 
lad ! he had a home which was no home ; and his heart was 
hungry within him for the love which blessed the lives of 
others. When Alastair Murray had talked of his mother, with 
a kind of disrespectful tenderness which was true honour, as 
4 the dear old mater,’ Fergus had listened with a kind of vague, 
yearning envy. His mother was a shadow on his life ; and yet 
he loved her too, though not as he would and could have, if she 
had allowed him. The grey night-shadows were falling about 
Shian and the head of the loch when he reached the brow of 
the hill and saw the Glen before him once more. The sky was 
soft and tender, dappled with rose-fringed clouds, with here 
and there a bright star peeping out like gleams of heavenly 
promise. The air was full of' peace, and laden with vague, subtle 
odours suggestive of bursting bud and blade in some wood. 
In the distance a cuckoo was calling sweetly to his mate, 
and the mountain burns were dancing merrily in their rocky 
beds ; making that pleasant, gurgling murmur which is some- 


21 6 


SHEILA. 


times the only sound to break the solemn solitudes of the hills. 
It was a fair world. The lad’s heart filled again at sight of the 
familiar strath, and at thought of the quiet grave at Shian, and 
of the exiles on the bosom of the broad Atlantic. In his loneli- 
ness and heart-break something prompted him to go to Rob 
Macnaughton, who always understood him, and would sympa- 
thize with him, he knew. Before he turned into the main road 
he took a long survey right along to Auchloy, lest any of the 
M 'Beans should be coming on horseback or afoot. He could 
not have borne to meet them then. But there was not a living 
thing to be seen but two or three cows wandering about the 
roadside seeking a bite of young grass. He quickened his pace, 
and in a few minutes crossed the burn, regardless of wetting 
his feet, and lifted the sneck of Rob’s door. The loom was 
..busy, he heard the click, click, of the needles as he entered ; 
but Rob heard him, and, coming off his stool, joined him in the 
kitchen. 

4 Weel, lad?’ 

1 Put the bolt in the door, Rob, quick,’ said Fergus. 

Rob did so, taking his time over it, and then carried the 
lamp from the shop into the kitchen. After he had set it upon 
the table, he turned his keen eye full on the lad’s face. He 
had thrown himself on a creepie by the hearthstone, and was 
‘ glowerin’ ’ at the smouldering peats, as if he had interest in 
nothing else. 

1 Ye’re a stranger, Maister Fergus,’ said Rob slowly, and, 
reaching to the peat fire, he laid on some more fuel, though the 
night was close and warm. ‘ Maybe, though,’ he added slowly, 
1 it’s the Laird I’m speakin’ till ? ’ 

1 No, Rob, it’s not the Laird,’ said Fergus, with a strange, 
slow, flickering smile. 

1 Aweel, if it’s no’ the Laird, he hasna the Laird’s cares to 
baud him doon, and they’re no’ sma’ in they times,’ said Rob 
cheerily, as he gave the peats a bit stir with his foot. He was 
keenly watching the face of Fergus all the while. He saw that 
th6 lad was sore vexed about something, and that in a minute 
it would all come out. He had a quick, warm, sympathetic 
heart, this rough, morose stocking-weaver, because he had the 


PLANS. 


ai7 

poet’s soul. He was never rough, never morose, never any- 
thing but genial and happy-hearted with these two young 
creatures, Fergus and Sheila, because he loved them, and they 
loved him. He went away back to the shop after a moment, 
pretending to look for his spectacles, and as he crossed the little 
passage between the two places he heard a sob break from the 
boy’s lips. It was the first wave of the tempest. The pent 
spirit and aching heart found relief that night, ay, and comfort 
too, before Fergus Macleod left Bob Macnaughton’s fireside. 

19 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE AWAKENING. 

*Twixt summer and her soul there seems to run 
A power to feel together. 

J. B. Selkirk. 


HE1LA, Miss Gordon has come home to the manse. 
She is not strong, her father tells me, and has been 
obliged to give up her situation in Doncaster. I 
am going in to Logie-Murray this afternoon to 

see her.’ 

‘ May I go with you, Aunt Ailsa ? 

‘ I was just going to ask you, my dear. You are moping too 
much. You will enjoy the drive.* 

‘ Oh, Aunt Ailsa, I don’t mope. I am very happy here,’ said 
Sheila quickly, but Aunt Ailsa only shook her head. She was 
concerned about Sheila. It was more than two months since 
Macdonald’s death, and Sheila had been at Murrayshaugh all 
the time. She had never expressed any desire to return to Dal- 
more, even for a day, nor had she ever voluntarily spoken of the 
place or of her special interest in it. Murrayshaugh was very 
quiet during the summer months — Alastair in Edinburgh, and 
the other lads at Trinity College in Glenalmond. But for 
Sheila Murrayshaugh had been a childless house, only she was 
more of a woman now than a child. She had given up childish 

pursuits, and even when the lads would come over from Glen- 
• 218 




THE A WAKENING. 


219 


almond sometimes to spend Saturday, she did not care to share 
their romps as of yore. She had grown very quiet and 
womanly in her ways, and would sew and knit for her aunt’s 
poor folk in Logie-Murray, or pore over her lesson-books, 
laboriously keeping up her German and French by reading the 
literature of those countries. Or she would go out for hours 
by herself with her sketching materials, and in the evenings 
practise her music, which, however, was not a task, but a 
labour of perfect love. Sheila was a born musician. Alto- 
gether, in her sixteenth year, Sheila was a model young lady, 
but Aunt Ailsa would rather have had the Sheila of old, who 
tore her frocks climbing trees and fences, and wet her feet 
1 gumping ’ with her cousins in the burns. The boys had lost 
their chum, and Murrayshaugh its merry - hearted maiden. 
Lady Ailsa saw that the inheritance was weighing on the 
child’s shoulders, and she did not know what to do with her, 
or how to act. Sometimes she remonstrated with her for 
sitting so closely over her books, then Sheila would say, with a 
little half sad, wholly pathetic smile, — 

4 Aunt Ailsa, I have such a lot to learn.’ 

And once, when Lady Ailsa had come upon her in the library 
poring over one of Sir Douglas’s huge volumes on estate 
management, she had gone to her own room to have a good 
cry. She felt almost angry with the dead for leaving such an 
incubus on the young shoulders of the living. 

Murrayshaugh was a sweet spot, — a low, large, commodious 
house, nestling among trees on the low ground beside the 
Logie, which watered the beautiful policies. In the early 
months of summer, when the trees wore their freshest garb, 
its sylvan loveliness could not be surpassed. But' Sheila felt 
shut in sometimes, and fancied it was difficult to breathe in the 
close sheltered air among the woods and waters. She loved 
the heights, the bare, grand solitudes, where nothing but the 
heather grew. Dalmore was her ideal, and yet she did not 
seek to return to it, her own home, an inheritance which 
nobody could take away from her. The time had not come 
yet, but it was at hand. These quiet days at Murrayshaugh 
seemed a kind of preparation for a coming change. I think 


220 


SHEILA. 


Lady Ailsa, who loved the bairn with a mother’s love, felt 
by and by that thought was maturing towards action, and so 
left her in peace. 

After luncheon that afternoon, Sheila and her aunt set out 
in Lady Ailsa’s pony carriage to drive through the leafy roads 
to the village. Sheila took the reins, and as Lady Ailsa leaned 
back among her comfortable cushions and looked at the straight, 
lithe young figure, and the clear-cut, sweet face, she gave an 
involuntary sigh. 

4 She’ll make some of the lads’ hearts ache yet ; and what 
about her own? She takes everything so terribly in earnest.’ 

4 Sheila, my dear, do you know you are quite a woman,* she 
said presently, giving expression to a part of her thought. 

4 1 feel very old, Aunt Ailsa,* said Sheila quite soberly, and 
Lady Ailsa laughed. 

4 My child, I am forty-eight, and I am certain I never 
had such a sober, careworn face. I could shake you, Sheila, 
positively shake you.’ 

4 Do it then, auntie,’ said Sheila, laughing too. 4 How well 
Punch and Judy go together, don’t they?’ 

4 Yes ; they are very old too, but they take life easily, like 
their mistress. What a pleasant afternoon this isl* 

4 Delightful ! We shall be Gut of the trees presently, and 
see about us, Aunt Ailsa. I don’t like trees very much. They 
make the landscape pretty, but they seem to absorb the fresh- 
ness of the air.’ 

4 You talk like a book, child. I think Murrayshaugh the 
loveliest place in the world. How sweet Logie is looking this 
afternoon. Look at the sun striking the spire on the kirk. 
Confess now, Sheila, it is a pretty picture.* 

4 Very, Aunt Ailsa. I think I must come to the toll here 
and sketch the kirk,’ said Sheila; but she was thinking of 
another kirk, bare, unlovely, uncomfortable within and with- 
out, but which was hallowed to her by many sweet memories 
which time would never dim. Punch and Judy, accustomed to 
follow the dictates of their own sweet wills, relaxed their 
steady trot presently, and began to ascend very leisurely the 
gentle slope of the road. 


THE A WAKENING. 


221 


‘When did Miss Gordon come home, auntie?’ asked Sheila, 
still keeping her eyes fixed on the old kirk, which was bathed 
in the warm yellow sunlight. 

4 On Saturday.’ 

‘ Is she very ill ? * 

‘ No, only fagged out. Teaching in a school is very hard 
work, Sheila.* 

4 I think it must be.’ 

‘ 1 am very sorry for the minister. It is a very difficult 
problem how to rear and educate ten children on a very limited 
income. Harriet’s help will be sadly missed.’ 

Sheila was silent. Her aunt wondered what sudden thought 
had brought that luminous light to her eyes. There was very 
little said after that. Having reached the crest of the little hill, 
Punch and Judy, with one accord, trotted gallantly down the 
brae into the village, up the long, wide, picturesque street, and 
drew up, with great satisfaction to themselves, at the white 
gates of the manse. Sheila jumped out, opened the gate, and 
led the ponies up the short, shady avenue to the front door. 
There was a basket chair on the lawn, from which a rather 
pale, delicate-looking girl rose and came forward to meet them. 
Her face flushed with pleasure at sight of her old pupil, and 
Sheila’s eyes filled as she kissed her. There was such a change. 

‘I am so sorry you are ill, dear Miss Gordon,’ she said 
affectionately. 

‘Not very ill, only tired out, Sheila,’ returned Harriet 
Gordon. ‘ How are you, Lady Ailsa? Will you come up to 
the drawing-room. Mamma is lying down in the study, I 
think. The heat tries her.’ 

‘ Don’t disturb her, then, on any account. It is you we have 
come to see, Harriet,’ said Lady Ailsa kindly. 4 Well, perhaps 
we had better go in ; it is so sunny here.’ 

4 It is never too sunny for me, Lady Ailsa,’ said the minister’s 
daughter. ‘The spring winds in Doncaster shrivelled me up.’ 

She led the way into the manse, and up to the shabby but 
home-like drawing-room, in which everything was for use and 
comfort and very little for ornament. Sheila thought it a very 
pleasant room. 


222 


SHEILA. 


Then the minister himself came up, a fine-looking man, with 
a benevolent face somewhat marked with the lines of care. As 
Lady Ailsa had said, the upbringing of a large family on small 
means was a problem he was daily finding it more difficult to 
solve. Harriet’s breakdown was a serious matter more ways 
than one. Her post as head mistress of the High School for 
Girls at Doncaster was very lucrative, but the strain had proved 
too much. She was unfeignedly glad to see her old pupil, with 
whom she had lived so happily for four years. But she was 
amazed to find her so changed. She had left her a careless, 
happy-hearted girl, and now found her a woman, with a 
woman’s care and forethought. 

‘May I come and see you again to-morrow, Miss Gordon?’ 
Sheila asked, when she saw her aunt preparing to go, after a 
short stay. 

‘ Surely ; come every day, dear Sheila. I feel as if I had to 
make a new acquaintance with you. Do you remember our 
happy days at Dalmore ? ’ 

Sheila flushed up quickly, but made no reply. Harriet 
Gordon could not but wonder why she was so sensitive about 
Dalmore. 

‘ Aunt Ailsa, Mr. Gordon is not a very rich man, is he ? ’ 
asked Sheila, as they drove away from the manse gate. 

‘Not rich at all, my dear, quite poor, and ten children. O 
dear me, I am so sorry for them ! I see Harriet feels dread- 
fully having to come home, and these three boys at college are 
a dreadful drain upon poor Mr. Gordon’s purse.’ 

‘Aunt Ailsa, why are so many nice people poor and 
uuhappy ? * 

‘ They may be poor at the manse, but they are not unhappy, 
Sheila — far from it. I never saw a more united and affection- 
ate family. You must not run away with the idea that only 
rich people are happy. It is quite the reverse.’ 

‘ Oh, Aunt Ailsa, I know that,’ said Sheila, in a low voice, 
and then a little silence fell upon them. 

‘Are you not tired having me at Murrayshaugh, auntie?’ 
asked Sheila, after a while. 

1 Just listen to that lark. I am sure he will strain his dear 


THE A WAKENING. 


223 


little throat,’ said Aunt Ailsa mischievously, pointing with her 
parasol up to the blue expanse, where a lark was trilling his 
sweet, noisy song with all his might. 

Sheila smiled. 

4 You are very naughty to laugh at me, Aunt Ailsa, when 
I am so sober. I want to talk very much in earnest to 
you.’ 

4 Won’t you talk very much in fun, just for a change? You 
are far too solemn and sober, Sheila; and I am going to be 
very angry with you from to-day.’ 

4 You couldn’t be angry if you tried, Aunt Ailsa,’ said Sheila 
quietly, and was silent again for a little, keeping her eyes on 
the ponies’ tossing heads. 

4 Aunt Ailsa,’ — Sheila dropped the reins and looked quite 
round into her aunt’s face, — 4 1 — I — think it is time for me to 
go back to Dalmore.’ 

4 Yes, my dear ; I have been waiting for it.’ 

4 1 — I think that perhaps papa would not like me to stay 
away so long,’ said Sheila, with a pathetic tremble in her voice. 
4 It is as if I did not like it, and oh, I do, Aunt Ailsa — better 
than any place in the world ! ’ 

4 Yes, my dear, I understand.’ 

4 1 have been thinking such a great deal, Aunt Ailsa, often 
till my head ached dreadfully, trying to make up my mind 
what to do. I have been reading in Uncle Douglas’s books.’ 

4 Don’t I know it ? I saw you one day, and could have 
whipped you, Sheila.’ 

4 1 have been reading all about wills and everything.’ 

4 What for? Your will was right enough, Sheila. Nothing 
will set it aside.* 

4 1 know,’ said Sheila, with a little sigh, 4 and I can’t give it 
up either. It would not be right. But, Aunt Ailsa, I think 
papa was sorry after about Fergus. Just think if he meant at 
the end to give him Dalmore, but could not make us under- 
stand. Wouldn’t it be dreadful ?' 

4 Sheila, it is very wrong of you to say such things. If you 
brood over this, you may do yourself serious injury.’ 

4 O no, I won’t. When I go to Dalmore, auntie, I am 


224 


SHEILA . 


going to look everywhere to see if there is any other will. 
Papa said something about it.’ 

Lady Ailsa listened in vexed silence. She saw that the girl 
was the slave of an idea which would cause her great trouble 
and anxiety if she brooded upon it. 

* You may look, dear, to satisfy yourself, but I am quite sure 
you will never find what you seek. Now that it is all over, 
would it not be much better to try and be worthy of your 
inheritance, and do your duty as its mistress, than to make 
yourself and others miserable with these ideas? Sheila, it is 
not right.* 

‘Perhaps not, Aunt Ailsa, but I can’t feel right about it. 
Dalmore ought to belong to Fergus. I will never forget that.’ 

4 It may be his some day if you give it to him, Sheila,’ said 
Aunt Ailsa, with a smile, but Sheila did not understand, and 
took the words in their literal sense. 

‘Perhaps he may take it some day,’ she said hopefully. 
‘ Aunt Ailsa, do you think Miss Gordon would come back to 
Dalmore with me? I have to learn some things yet. Then 
she could help them at home, and get strong herself at Dal- 
more.’ 

Aunt Ailsa took the girl’s grave, sweet face in her hands 
and kissed it tenderly. 

‘ God bless you, my darling, for ever and ever. I see you 
are to be a blessing to Dalmore.’ 




CHAPTER XXV* 

HOME. 

Xae birdio sweeter sings, 

In a* the warl* wide, 

Than the lintie 'mong the whins 
On our ain hill-side. 

Sadie. 

OD-BYE, then, Sheila. I shall come up some fine 
day soon, and see how you are getting on/ said 
Lady Ailsa. ‘Harriet Gordon, see that she is kept 
in occupation. I leave her in your care.* 

4 1 will look after her, Lady Ailsa/ said Harriet Gordon, 
looking at Sheila with all her heart in her eyes. No need to 
say how readily the kind offer had been accepted at the manse. 
Once more care was lifted from the minister’s heart. The 
perfect rest, the fine, pure, bracing air, and the plentiful table 
at Dalmore would do more for his ailing daughter than even 
the mother’s care at home. With ten mouths to fill every day, 
it is no easy task to provide tempting dainties, even for one. 

So the carriage rolled away from Murrayshaugh, and along 
the smooth, wide road to Dunkeld, which was looking its 
loveliest that sunny June day. 

Sheila had not much to say while they drove; but though 
her tongue w«s silent her eyes were busy, and when they passed 
by the richly-wooded low grounds, and turned up Strathbraan, 




226 


SHEILA . 


Harriet Gordon saw her look eagerly from side to side, noting 
each familiar landmark with loving interest and pride. 

It was a long drive, and Harriet was a little tired before they 
reached Amulree. 

‘Oh, Miss Gordon ! just look at Dalrtiore with the sun on it. 
Isn’t it lovely ? ’ Sheila cried, when they reached the top of 
Ballinreich Brae, and saw the whole face of Crom Creagh, with 
the old house lying snugly in its bosom, sheltered by dark pines, 
and waving, graceful birches. The sun was flashing in every 
window, and from the tower the flag was waving for the first 
time since it had been lowered at its master’s death. 

‘That is to welcome you, Sheila. They are glad their young 
lady is coming home,’ said Miss Gordon, with a pleased smile. 

Sheila’s eyes were full of tears. It would be but a sorry 
welcome after all, returning to an empty house, which was 
peopled only by memories and the shadowy forms of those who 
‘ were not.’ But the few servants in charge of the place had 
. all gathered about the door, and Cameron, wearing a stiff black 
silk gown and her best lace cap, came forward with a smile and 
a tear to bid her young mistress welcome home. Sheila looked 
from one to another somewhat mournfully, and replied to their 
greetings in a low, quiet voice. It made the bairn feel her 
responsibility yet more when she saw them standing so respect- 
fully before her — her own servants ! She was very young to be 
mistress to anybody, and they saw what was her unuttered 
thought, and every heart was sore for her. 

4 Tea is in the drawing-room, Miss Sheila,’ said Mrs. Cameron. 

‘ Let me help you, Miss Gordon. You look so white and tired.’ 

‘ She is very tired, I am afraid. Will you be able to come to 
tea, Miss Gordon, or will you go and lie down for a while ? ’ 
asked Sheila kindly. 

‘ I will just go up to my own room. I am very sorry to be 
so useless, dear. I hope 1 shall be better soon.’ 

‘ O yes, I am sure you will. Take her up, Cameron, and I 
will go to the drawing-room for her tea,’ said Sheila, thinking 
of others’ comfort before her own. 

She took up the tea, and sat by her governess while she drank 
it, and then, drawing down the blind and covering her up, she 


HOME. 


227 


bade her go to sleep, and ran downstairs. The housekeeper 
was waiting about the landing, anxious to see and speak with 
her. She was so glad to see the bairn back to her own home 
again. 

‘Do come into the drawing-room, while I am having tea,’ 
said Sheila. ‘ I want to hear all about everything. Oh, have 
they had any news from the folk who left the Fauld?* 

‘ Yes, Miss Sheila ; about a week ago, Rob Macnaughton had a 
letter from the smith, and Ewan M‘Fadyen, too, had one from 
his daughter Annie, who married young Stewart of Turrich. 
You’ll remember her?’ 

‘ I did not know her, as she was a servant with the Miss 
Campbells at Shian ; and did they all get safe over that dreadful 
sea?’ 

‘ All safe ; and what do you think, Miss Sheila? sailing on the 
sea made old Mrs. Stewart quite well,’ said the housekeeper, 
delighted to see the bairn so interested; ‘and they are all in 
good spirits, and not a bit sorry they left the Glen.’ 

‘ I’m glad of that. I hope they will get on splendidly,’ said 
Sheila fervently ; ‘ and all the other folks are quite well ? Do 
you ever see Katie Menzies ? 1 

‘ Only on Sundays at the kirk, Miss Sheila. A bonnie, 
bonnie lassie Katie has grown. I hope she’ll have grace to 
guide her. I’m whiles hearing what I dinna like ; — but let that 
pass.’ 

‘ And Malcolm, who is so droll. How is Malcolm ? ’ 

‘Just as he was. What a size he has grown ! six feet in his 
stockings, if he is an inch, Miss Sheila, I am sure. And the 
auld wife is as thrawn as ever.* 

‘ Oh, I must go down and see them all, now I have come.’ 

‘You are going to bide, then?’ asked Mrs. Cameron 
anxiously. 

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Sheila, growing a little pale. ‘You will 
be very kind to poor Miss Gordon, Cameron, and give her all 
she needs ? I want her to grow very strong in Dalmore.* 

‘ I’ll do all I can, for she’s a sweet young lady, and fine 
company she’ll be for you,’ said Cameron heartily. ‘ Oh, Miss 
Sheila, it’s fell proud I am that ye are come home to your own. 


228 


SHEILA . 


It’s been but a dull house all the summer through without a 
head.’ 

‘Am I the head, Cameron?’ asked Sheila, with a pathetic 
little smile ; then, quite suddenly, showing the current of her 
thoughts, she added, ‘ Fergus is not at Shonnen, is he ? ’ 

‘No, Miss Sheila; but he will be in three weeks’ time, Jessie 
Mackenzie was telling me yesterday. He is doing something 
splendid at the college.’ 

‘ He is very clever. Of course he would do splendidly/ said 
Sheila complacently. ‘Oh, Cameron, don’t you think it would 
have been grand if Fergus had been Laird of Dalmore? Then, 
how happy I could have been at Murrayshaugh ; Aunt Ailsa’s 
little girl, and nothing more.’ 

‘We are very well pleased with our young lady, Miss Sheila,’ 
said Cameron. ‘There’s not one in all Strathbraan or Glen- 
quaich but what would say that.* 

‘ Perhaps not ; but all the same he ought to have had 
it,’ said Sheila, with a sigh ; and then she told to the faithful 
servant the few words Macdonald had said on that dark day 
he died, over which Sheila had brooded till she made herself 

ill. 

‘ I want you to help me to look, Cameron,’ she said ; 4 if there 
was another will, and Dalmore should belong to Fergus, how 
dreadful for me to be here ! ’ 

‘Miss Sheila,’ said the housekeeper somewhat hesitatingly, 
‘ I want to tell you something that happened two nights before 
the Laird died. Master Fergus had been up to see him, and after 
he was away the Laird bade me get him his writing things out 
of the library. I gave them to him, and when he rang for me, 
about half an hour after, he had been writing something, for 
the ink was wet in the pen, and he had dried something on the 
blotting-pad, for it was quite clean when I gave it to him. But 
he never said anything, and there was no sign of any papers 
lying about.’ 

‘It would be the will, Cameron I I knew there was one!’ 
cried Sheila excitedly, jumping up. 4 Let us go and look every- 
where in the library. Oh, we must find it! We will find it, I 
am sure.’ 


HOME. 


229 


Leaving her teacup half emptied on the table, Sheila was off 
downstairs like an arrow. The housekeeper followed her as 
quickly as she could, and found her with a drawer open in the 
Laird’s secretaire. 

‘ Look here, Miss Sheila,’ said Cameron. ‘ I put past this 
blotting-pad, I don’t know why. It has never been used since 
the Laird had it, though Mr. Colquhoun wrote a lot here after 
the Laird died. Can you read it ? ’ 

Sheila leaned on the housekeeper’s shoulder, and fixed her 
eyes intently on the blotting-pad. The characters were strange, 
cramped-looking things, not easily deciphered, but she could 
make out quite clearly the name of Fergus Macleod, and further 
on, Dalmore. 

‘ Cameron,’ she said quite solemnly, ‘ this is the impress of 
the will; let us hunt all over the rooms. It can’t be out of 
these few rooms, unless papa gave it to some one.’ 

‘ That he didn’t, Miss . Sheila, for nobody saw him again 
till Lady Ailsa came. Angus M‘Bean was here upon the 
Thursday, but I had the Laird’s orders not to let him in, 
and bonnie angered he was at it, and gied me ill words 
aboot it. But when I have my orders I can be as firm as 
the Bass Rock.’ 

Sheila never answered. Her hands and eyes were busy 
among the straggling papers in the drawers, but, though they 
searched for an hour and more in every nook and cranny, 
nothing was found of the missing will — if, indeed, it had ever 
existed. The child was grievously disappointed, but would 
not quite give up hope. She carried the precious blotting- 
pad up to her own room, and locked it in her wardrobe 
drawer. Then she went up to see whether Miss Gordon was 
awake. 

‘ I want to go along to Achnafauld, Miss Gordon/ she said, 
seeing that she was wide awake. ‘Would it be too far to 
walk?’ 

‘Well, perhaps, to-night, it would, dear. If you could wait 
till the morning, I would go with you.’ 

‘ I want to go to-night, though/ said Sheila. ‘ It will be light 
for a long time yet, and Malcolm and Katie Menzies will convoy 


230 


SHEILA. 


me home. I have never been at the Fauld, Miss Gordon, since 
last year, before I went to school.’ 

Sheila’s listless, brooding thoughtfulness seemed to have 
vanished utterly. She was alert now, anxious to be up and 
doing. The time for action had come. Harriet Gordon, a few 
minutes later, watched the tall, slight, lissom figure, walking 
with swift, firm, purpose- like step along the white road from the 
Girron Brig, and smiled a little. Unless she was very much 
mistaken, the people’s interests would be looked into, and as 
they had never been looked into in any laird’s time. Sheila 
knew their inner life, and would take a personal interest in all 
their affairs. The governess, who, like most folk, disliked and 
distrusted Angus M‘Bean, wondered how he would like the new 
rule. Though it was in the frail hands of a girl, it might be 
too firm for his taste. 

Sheila did not meet any one on the road but the innkeeper’s 
herd, who, not recognising her, bade her turn his cattle about if 
she met them * wast the Glen.’ She smiled, and, promising to do 
so, walked rapidly on. It was delightful to be out in these 
open roads, with the 'wide-spreading heathery moors on either 
side, and the cool, fresh mountain breezes blowing about her 
like the elixir of life. How solemn and majestic the towering 
peaks of the encircling hills ! Looking back, the purple after- 
glow from the sunset lay exquisitely on the Girron, while Tom- 
nagrew was in darkest shadow. A golden shaft again touched 
the rugged shoulder of Craig Hulich. Light and shadow 
exquisitely blended or sharply contrasted gave to the landscape 
a beauty second in Sheila’s eyes to none. She only looked once 
more to Craig Hulich, sharply defined against the clear amber 
sky ; she could not forget that in Shonnen dwelt a woman who 
hated her with a terrible hatred, rendered doubly awful to 
Sheila, because it was the mother of Fergus Macleod who bore 
such causeless resentment against her. Away up the Glen the 
beauty of the summer evening was seen in its most striking 
aspect of perfect peace. There was not a ripple on the breast 
of the loch, and the Quaich, like a thread of gold, watered the 
low green banks, where the lambs were frisking about their 
mothers, and as if rejoicing in the sweetness of a perfect summer 



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HOME. 


* 3 * 

day. Tlie trees were green and lovely about Shian ; but Sheila 
could not look often there. Some day she would visit that 
quiet resting-place, but not yet. 

She did not meet the cattle on the road, but, seeing them on 
the slope of the brae leading over to Corrymuckloch, she took 
the trouble to go up and turn them about on their homeward 
way. The exertion heated her, and there was a lovely flush 
on her face when she reached the Fauld and entered Janet 
Menzies* cottage. 

‘Wha’sthat?’ asked the old woman querulously; then she 
added a sharp sentence in Gaelic, which Sheila, of course, did 
not understand. ‘Katie, ye jaud! come here; there’s a strange 
wummin at the door.’ 

‘It’s only me, Janet,’ said Sheila, coming forward. ‘Don’t 
you know me? I missed you from your chair. Have you 
been long in bed ? ’ 

‘Ay, ower lang. So it’s you, Miss Sheila?’ said Janet, un- 
graciously enough still. ‘Katie, whaur are ye? Ill befa’ 
her! she’s never in. But I daursay she’ll be helpin’ some o’ 
them wi’ their kye. A’thing but her ain duty. Sit down. 
Are ye hame to Dalmore ?’ 

1 Yes ; I only came to-day.’ 

‘ Jist aboot time, then, or ye needna ha’ come ava. 
Leddy Cameron and her set wad sune eat ye oot o’ hoose 
an’ hame,’ said Janet grimly. ‘ Whaur hae ye been a’ this 
while ? ’ 

‘At Murrayshaugh. Oh, here’s Katie. How are you, Katie?’ 

4 Miss Sheila ! ’ 

Katie blushed with pleasure, and somewhat shyly took the 
proffered hand. Two fair young creatures both were, as they 
stood there, each contrasting well with the other. Katie, in her 
fresh calico and spotless kerchief, her bonnie face bronzed with 
the sun, was as fair in her own way as the dainty young Lady 
of Dalmore. 

4 How different you look, Miss Sheila 1 I think I shouldna 
hae kent ye,’ said Katie, knowing by the sweet, easy smile that 
there was no inner change. 

4 You are different, too, Katie. Isn’t she bonnie, Janet? ’ 

20 


232 


SHEILA. 


4 Bonnie ! I dinna see’t. She’s fair eneuch without ye tellin’ 
her ony mair. The lads are beginnin’ to rin aboot; a perfect 
heartbreak, besides an end to wark.’ 

‘Oh, Aunt Janet!’ said Katie, growing redder still. ‘Never 
mind her, Miss Sheila. You must see Malcolm. I think he 
is over at the stocking-weaver’s.’ 

‘ Well, I’m going there, so never mind telling him, Katie. 
Is your aunt always in her bed now?’ 

4 Oo ay, aye abed ! ’ grumbled the old woman. 4 I’d rather 
be deid, and dune wi’t. I dinna ken what pleasure it can gie 
the Almichty to keep me lyin’, sair and weary, here.’ 

‘ Wheesht, auntie ! ’ said Katie reprovingly ; but Sheila could 
not help laughing at the odd speech. 

4 So word has come home from America, and they are to get 
on nicely?’ she said, to change the subject. 

4 So they say, so they say — just lees, I tell them. Wha’s to 
ken what’s true and what’s lees, and sae muckle water atween 
them?’ said Jenny, in her usual cantankerous spirit 4 Ay, 
Angus M‘Bean’s gettin* the auld place cleared oot in braw 
style. He’s Laird o’ Dalmore noo, ye ken.’ 

‘Aunt Janet, dinna be impudent,’ said Katie, in a vexed tone. 
‘ She’s waur than she used to be, Miss Sheila, but nobody minds 
her.’ 

‘You dinna, ony way, ye jaud! though I brocht ye up. 
Folks’ ain bairns are bad, they say, though I never had ony, 
but ither folks’ are a hantle waur. Will ye tak’ my advice, 
Miss Sheila ? If ye are the Leddy o’ Dalmore, as they say, 
set that ill carle at Auchloy about his business. 1 ken him — 
wha better ? He’s feart for my crawin’, an’ thocht he’d get 
me shippet awa’ to Canady; but Angus M‘Bean an’ me hae a 
wee bit account to settle yet.* 




CHAPTER XXVI. 


HER OWN FOLK. 


Thou art no lingerer in a monarch’s hall; 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all! 

A bearer of hope unto land and sea. 



RE you gaun to bide at the big boose noo, Miss 
Sheila ? ’ Katie asked, following Sheila to the door 
when she went away. 

‘Yes, I think so. I have been a long time 
Katie. How is Malcolm ? Is he quite strong 


‘ Only whiles,* answered Katie, with a shadow on her fair 
face. ‘He gets himsel’ into sic passions aboot naething, and 
he’s as weak as water efter’t, Miss Sheila. There’s no^much to 
be made off the land, but it’s better than naething. Ye’ll no’ 
let Mr. M‘Bean put auntie oot o’ the hoose, an’ tak* the croft 
frae her at Martinmas ? 9 

‘Katie Menzies ! how could you think of such a dreadful 
thing ? ’ asked Sheila, in a shocked, sorrowful voice. 

‘ Weel, Mr. M ‘Bean’s aye tellin’ Malky this’ll be his last 
hairst,’ said Katie, with tears in her eyes. ‘You should see 
Malky after Mr. M‘Bean’s been speakin’ till him. His een 
glower like fire, an’ he fair shakes wi’ rage. I’m terrified 
whiles for fear they fa’ oot.* 


233 



234 


SHEILA. 


1 I’ll see Malcolm, Katie ; and don’t you vex yourself about 
the house or the croft. Too many have left the Glen already. 
There will be no more if I can help it,’ said Sheila, with the 
grave decision of a woman. The assurance comforted Katie, 
and she had a smile again as she said good-bye. Sheila crossed 
through the clachan, not caring to look at all at the ‘ smiddy,’ 
where Donald and Mary had been wont to welcome her so 
warmly, and went straight to Rob Macnaugnton’s door. It 
was shut as usual, but, after giving a light tap, she went in. It 
was never broad daylight in these little, low, thatched cottages, 
and soon after sundown they had to light their lamps. But 
Rob and Malcolm Menzies were sitting in the red glow of the 
peat fire, and the little kitchen was full of curious shadows, 
made by the blending of daylight and firelight. It was a 
few seconds before Sheila’s eye got so accustomed to the 
gloom that she could discern the two figures sitting by the 
hearth. 

4 It’s only me, Rob,’ she said, with a little laugh. 4 Malcolm, 
how are you? I can hardly see you.’ 

4 Bless the bairn 1 ’ said the stocking- weaver, springing up. 

4 Ye came in that canny a moose wadna hear ye. Malcolm 
and me’s at the Gaelic. He’s ta’en the notion to learn it, an’ 
it keeps him oot o’ mischief.’ 

Malcolm rose, blushing painfully, and shuffled awkwardly 
back from the fireside, quite ignoring the kind hand Sheila 
stretched out to him in greeting. A big, uncouth -looking 
fellow was Malcolm still, — a man in height, but loose and 
ill - hung, his bony cheeks gaunt and hollow, his eyes far 
sunken in his head, and his matted brown hair hanging in 
tangles about his face, quite hiding the high forehead, which, 
being always thus covered, was as white as snow, and some- 
times, when he would push the hair aside, it showed in curious 
contrast against the swarthy, sunburnt hue of the lower part 
of his face. 

4 1 have been in seeing your aunt and Katie, and I came over 
to see you, Malcolm,’ said Sheila. ‘And how is he getting 
on with the Gaelic, Rob? How fond he is of learning new 
things I * 


HER OWN FOLK. 


235 


4 He’s getting on faster than I can teach him,’ said Rob, 
busying himself with the lamp on the table. 4 But, faith, he 
asks for explanations I canna gie him. I’m no’ a grammarian, 
ye ken ; it’s the hamert Gaelic I teach.’ 

4 Sit down, Malcolm ; don’t go away because I have come in,’ 
said Sheila kindly ; but Malcolm, with a toss of his long hair, 
suddenly clutched his shanter, and disappeared like a shot out 
of the door. 

4 He’s a queer ane, Miss Sheila,’ said Rob, with his dry laugh. 
4 Ye never ken whaur ye hae him. But I’m jist as weel pleased 
he’s gane. Sit doon, sit doon. So ye’ve come back, my bairnie, 
to your ain ? ’ 

The harsh voice of the stocking- weaver became soft and low 
as he uttered the last sentence, and his rugged eyes looked with 
a peculiar tenderness at the sweet, refined face of the young 
creature sitting by his hearth. 

4 Yes, Rob,’ said Sheila, with a catch in her voice ; 4 1 came 
back to-day.’ 

4 An’ the auld hoose seemed empty, and the bit heart cried 
out for them that’s awa? Ay, ay,’ said Rob, as he stirred up 
the peats on the hearth to make a cheery glow, 4 it was a 
bairn that gaed awa, an’ I see it’s a woman that has come back. 
But she’ll be guided and blessed, for the blessin’ o’ the Lord is 
upon her.’ 

Sheila sat very still; feeling, indeed, as if some precious 
benison was falling on her head. 

‘ It is empty and sad, Rob,’ she said at length ; 4 and oh, how 
different it is here at the Fauld, too ! There’s only you and the 
Menzies, where there used to be so many.’ 

4 Ay, an’ there’ll be fewer. He’s to put Malcolm oot, 
they say, at the back-end; but afore that there’ll maybe be 
an ill deed dune in the Glen that will bring a curse upon 
it.’ 

4 He will not put Malcolm out, Rob. I have come home,’ said 
* Sheila ; and her sweet mouth became proud and determined, and 
her soft eyes flashed with a brave resolve. 

The stocking -weaver gave his knee a great slap with his 
horny hand, and chuckled merrily. 


236 


SHEILA. 


‘Ay, ay, the bairn is a woman, an’ lie’s to get his match. 
Sic fun! ’ 

Sheila laughed a little, too. That curious chuckle of Rob’s 
was very contagious. 

‘Rob, will you take another pupil? / want to learn Gaelic 
too,’ she said presently. 

‘You learn frae me! Ye heard what I said, it’s hamert 
Gaelic I teach ; I hinna grammar.’ 

‘ Don’t tell me that, Rob, when you can write such perfect 
little poems. I heard a gieat professor from Edinburgh at 
Murrayshaugh, one day, saying they were among the classic 
literature of Scotland, and I felt dreadful because I had never 
read them,’ said Sheila quickly. ‘I want you to teach me 
your own Gaelic, because I want to be able to read your 
poems, and to speak to the old people in the Glen in their 
own tongue.’ 

‘Bless the bairn!’ said Rob, under his breath, and stooped 
over the peats again to hide the moisture in his eye. Those 
outside who only knew the rough side of the stocking-weaver 
would not have known him in such a mood as this, but Sheila 
had never seen him in any other. 

‘I’m going to come about the Fauld a great deal, Rob,’ 
she said, rising presently to go. ‘ I want to get to know 
everybody from Findowie up to Garrows. How long do 
you suppose it will take me to make acquaintance with 
them all?* 

‘ I dinna ken. There’s some o’ them hardly worth the 
trouble, but ye’ll find oot the ill wi’ the guid. I see ye are 
beginnin’ weel, my bairn, an’ the new Leddy of Dalmore is to 
be such as was never seen.’ 

‘ Hush, Rob ! ’ said Sheila, and her tears sprang again. 

Rob sat long after she had left him, pondering the thing in his 
mind, with a dreamy expression on his face which betokened 
the deepest thought. 

The new Lady of Dalmore was not to let the grass grow 
under her feet. Immediately after breakfast next morning the 
carriage was ordered, and great was the amazement of the 
coachman when he received his order to drive to the office of 


HER OWN FOLK. 


237 


Mr. Colquhoun, the lawyer in Perth. Miss Gordon was so far 
recovered that she was able to accompany her charge, but she 
was quite ignorant of the object of the journey. She thought 
to herself, however, that Lady Ailsa might have spared the 
injunctions to keep Sheila in occupation. There seemed to be 
a danger rather of her attempting too much. 

‘ I think you should get down at the Salutation, Miss Gordon, 
and order our lunch,’ said Sheila, when they reached Perth. 
‘ 1 will not be long at Mr. Colquhoun’s.* 

The governess assented, and Sheila went alone to the lawyer’s 
office. Needless to say, he was amazed to see her, but his 
greeting was most kind. The scene at Dalmore, through which 
his young client had carried herself so nobly, was still fresh in 
his memory. 

‘Yes, I am staying at Dalmore, Mr. Colquhoun,’ she said, 
in answer to his first question, ‘ and I have come to ask you 
some questions. There are a great many things I want to 
know.* 

As she spoke, she began to unfasten the string from a large 
flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was the blotting-pad 
the Laird had used the last time he had a pen in his hand. 
Mr. Colquhoun was perfectly amazed, but in a few words 
Sheila explained the whole matter to him. Her anxiety and 
distress even were so genuine, that he treated her communica- 
tion with a corresponding gravity, though it amused him very 
much. 

‘My dear Miss Murray Macdonald,* he said, looking straight 
into the earnest face, ‘I entreat you not to trouble yourself 
about this. I assure you Mr. Macdonald’s mind was quite 
made up. His decision about Dalmore was unalterable. Both 
Lady Murray and I put Mr. Fergus Macleod’s claim before 
him, but it was you he wished to heir Dalmore. The will 
carrying that wish into effect was only drawn up three days 
before his death. It was impossible — at least, most improbable 
— that he should change his mind. And supposing he had, 
would he not have given the new will, when he made it, into 
safe keeping, or put it where it would be found ? * 

‘Well, perhaps,’ said Sheila, but her tone was very doubtful. 


238 


SHEILA. 


‘ My dear young lady, I assure you it would vex and grieve 
your father if he knew of the needless anxiety you are giving 
yourself,’ said the lawyer gravely and kindly. ‘And why be 
so downcast about Mr. Fergus Macleod ? His uncle did not 
forget him, and he is a clever young fellow, with life all before 
him. He may make a far better use of his talents because he 
has his own way to carve. This very thing which is vexing 
you may be the making of him.’ 

Sheila’s face brightened. This was a side of the question 
which had never occurred to her before. 

‘ So you must try and enjoy your inheritance. I am sure 
Dalmore could never have a sweeter mistress/ said the old 
lawyer gallantly. 

4 Then, if Dalmore is mine, I may do what I like ; may I, 
Mr. Colquhoun ? ’ 

‘Yes. In very important matters you would require to 
consult Mr. Macfarlane, the minister, as your trustee.’ 

‘Suppose, then, Mr. Colquhoun, that Mr. M‘Bean wished 
to put the cottars out of the Fauld, could I prevent 
him? ’ 

‘ You are mistress of Dalmore ; Angus M‘Bean is your 
servant, Miss Murray Macdonald,’ said the lawyer, with a dry 
smile of enjoyment. He did not like Angus M‘Bean, and 
foresaw that the new Lady was to clip the ambitious factor’s 
wings. 

‘Then I may tell him, Mr. Colquhoun, that he is to leave 
the Menzies alone, and all the rest of the folk ? If they pay 
their rents, I wish them to stay.* 

‘ You can tell him anything you like. It will do him good,’ 
said the la\vyer briskly. ‘ And in any difficulty with him come 
to me.’ 

‘ Thank you, that is all I wish to know,’ said Sheila ; and the 
look of grave anxiety quite lifted off her face. The lawyer 
handed her to her carriage with a deference he did not always 
pay to more important clients. She had roused his deepest 
interest and admiration. 

Harriet Gordon was amazed at Sheila when she returned 
to the hotel. She was so bright and happy, more like the 


HER OWN FOLK. 


239 


Sheila of long ago. She talked gaily all the way home, 
pointing out every object of interest in the sma’ glen, — the 
Roman camp, Ossian’s grave, and the Soldier’s grave, — not one 
was forgotten. 

When they came near Corrymuckloch Inn, she stood up and 
bade the coachman go over the old road to Auchloy. They 
drew up at the factor’s trimly kept lawn just as that gentleman 
was sitting down to his substantial three o’clock dinner. The 
two fine young ladies, in their starched muslins and glossy 
curls, immediately flew into a tremendous excitement at sight 
of the prancing horses at the dining-room window, and hid 
themselves behind the curtains to see who were in the 
carriage. 

Mrs. M‘Bean would have hurried to the door to welcome 
her distinguished guest, but her husband restrained her; and 
when Sheila asked for the factor, she was shown into the brand 
new drawing-room like an ordinary caller. Young though she 
was, the child had her own pride, and felt that the factor might 
at least have come to the door. She was standing by the table, 
with her hand laid lightly on the fine embroidered cover, when 
the door opened, and Mr. M‘Bean entered, all smiles, to greet the 
young Lady of Dalmore. He had assumed a benign, almost 
fatherly demeanour, which, however, was chilled by the grave, 
somewhat haughty, look in the young lady’s face. 

4 Good- morning, Mr. M‘Bean,’ she said quietly. 

4 G O 0 C?-morning, Miss Sheila. Pray be seated, and I will 
tell Mrs. M 4 Bean and the girls to come in. They will 
be charmed with your visit. When did you come to 
Dalmore? ’ 

4 1 wish to speak to you, Mr. M 4 Bean,’ said Sheila quite 
pointedly. 4 1 came to Dalmore yesterday, and I was at the 
Fauld last night. I heard from Malcolm Menzies that you 
spoke of making them leave the croft soon. I hope you will 
never say such a thing to them again. And if they can make 
more money with more land, they can have Rory Maclean’s 
croft too. It is quite close by. I want the people to live 
happy and comfortable in the Fauld, and I am going to stay 
here and look after them now.’ 

21 


240 


SHEILA. 


Sheila delivered this brave speech without a quaver in her 
sweet young voice. Long afterwards, recalling that scene, 
she wondered at her own temerity, and laughed over the 
recollection of the blank, dumbfounded look on the face of 
Angus M‘Bean. 




CHAPTER XXVII. 

HER RESOLVE* 

Oh, it is sad to feel our heart-spring gone, 

To lose hope, care not for the coming thing. 

Bailey. 

MACLEOD was dwelling alone in bitterness of 
at Shonnen. After the Laird’s death and the 
ing of the will, Angus M l Bean paid no more 
t to the haughty, dark-browed mistress of the 
Lodge, and right well did she know why. It only added to the 
weight of wrong which seemed heaped upon her. If dark 
glances from an angry eye could have done evil to Dalmore, its 
summer beauty might well have been blasted; for often, often 
did Ellen Macleod stand at the upper windows of the Lodge, 
and in her heart curse the place and all who dwelt within it. 
But the curse causeless shall not come. Peace dwelt upon 
Dalmore, and its young mistress was happy with the happiness 
which comes of a contented, occupied, generous mind. The 
cloud had lifted from off the child, and though occasionally the 
old fear that she might be unrighteously enjoying another’s 
heritage rose up to darken the sunshine for a little, it soon 
passed. Occasionally she went to renew her search in the 
Laird’s rooms, and even tap the old walls, after reading some 
tale of mystery and crime, to seek for some secret cavity, but 



242 


SHEILA . 


there was no romance of that kind about Dalmore. The old 
house of Findowie, now a ruin, was said to be filled with 
curious recesses and hidden rooms, and even to have under- 
ground passages below the bed of the Braan, in which the old 
Laird of Findowie had hidden in the dark days after Culloden, 
but there was no mystery of romance or intrigue about Dalmore. 

Angus M k Bean had verily got his wings clipped. Mr. Mac- 
farlane, the minister of Amulree, and Sheila’s only trustee, was 
about as unfit for discharging the business part of his engage- 
ment as a man could possibly be. He was a student and a 
recluse, whose whole soul was engrossed by the study of every 
‘ology’ except theology. He knew all the folk-lore of Perthshire, 
and had tales about Amulree and Glenquaich at his finger-ends 
which would make other folks’ hair stand on end. He knew 
the very paths the fugitives had taken after Culloden, and the 
caves in which they hid. And as for browmies and warlocks, 
and other uncanny folk, he knew all their haunts, and every 
old ‘ploy’ in which the legends of the ingle-neuk gave them a 
part. He was a kindly, honest, simple old man, who preached 
practical discourses, unembellished by any rhetorical display or 
depth of reasoning, yet finely suited to the needs of his folk. 
Why Macdonald had left him sole trustee was a mystery, unless 
he had wished Sheila to have her own way absolutely. She 
consulted him on every point, but it was only a form, for he 
was with her, heart and soul, in her desire and plan to better the 
condition of the poor cottars in the Glen. He had long deplored 
the influence of Angus M‘Bean with the old Laird, and had on 
more than one occasion treated that worthy to an unvarnished 
opinion, therefore he rejoiced that the old Laird’s adopted 
daughter was beginning her reign so well. So the work of 
‘ sweeping the Fauld off the face of the earth ’ came to a sudden 
end, and the place took a new lease of life. Malcolm Menzies 
got Rory Maclean’s croft, and a horse, also two cows. The 
houses were repaired, and the wood driven from the head of the 
Glen by horses provided at the expense of the estate. Were I 
to attempt a description of Angus M ‘Bean’s state of mind at 
finding himself foiled by a young girl, I should simply fail, so 
we shall leave him alone. 


TIER RESOLVE. 


2 43 


Rob Macnaughton, the stocking-weaver, wrote occasionally to 
Fergus Macleod in Edinburgh, acquainting him with the happy 
changes taking place in the Glen, and Fergus rejoiced over it 
all in a manly, generous spirit, but was not much surprised. 
Sheila could never be anything but kind, and she knew and 
loved the folk just as he did. Fergus was not very happy in 
Edinburgh. A part of his college life he enjoyed, for, as was 
to be expected, he was a prime favourite with 1 the fellows,’ 
but he had no sympathy with the classical study he was 
pursuing. His heart was not in it, and he felt that it was mere 
waste of time and money for him to stay. He knew quite well 
that, after the final settlement of his uncle’s affairs, his mother 
had again decided that he should study for the Church, but on 
that point the lad was absolutely determined. As the long, hot 
days of the summer session dragged away, he pondered the 
whole matter in his mind, engrossing his faculties with it in the 
very lecture -rooms, while the rest were busy with their books, 
and when the holidays came, his mind was made up as to what 
course he should pursue. He was just at the restless, un- 
settled age when youth seeks constantly after some new thing. 
His desire pointed that summer away across the sea to the new 
country where the first pioneers from Glenquaich had gone, 
and he asked no better destiny just then than to follow them, 
and cast in his lot with theirs. Nothing but labouring with his 
hands, and earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, would 
satisfy him ; book learning and the classic shades of the grey 
old college were hateful to him, though they were the precious 
thing’s of earth to others. Alastair Murray enjoyed himself 
very well in Edinburgh, dabbling in agricultural chemistry, and 
looking in occasionally at the law classes, but he had no 
particular end in view. There were plenty like him, — lairds’ 
sons, who were supposed to get an insight into study which 
would fit them for the whole management of their estates, but 
who managed to make their college days more a play-time 
than lesson- time. Angus M k Bean belonged to a different class. 
He worked by fits and starts with all his might, when a more 
than usually impressive letter from Auchloy progged him up ; 
but he was an idle, dissipated young upstart, who spent his 


244 


SHEILA. 


evenings in questionable company, and imagined himself a fine 
4 man about town.’ Poor young fool ! in that idea, unfortunately, 
he did not stand alone. He found plenty of companions, also; 
but Fergus seemed to be very much alone. Nobody could un- 
derstand just how he felt, and altogether that was an unprofit- 
able session for him, and he was glad when it came to an end. 

It was a dreary, wet night when he trudged up the long 
miles between Dunkeld and Amulree, leaving his bag to come 
by the post-gig next day. He had travelled himself from Edin- 
burgh, Alastair being away for a week’s fishing in the Lammer- 
muirs with the young Laird of Wemyss, and Puddin’ M‘Bean 
deeming it wise to remain a day or two in town, until the 
effects of the farewell supper had worn off, before he put in an 
appearance at Auchloy, and subjected himself to the keen 
paternal vision. Fergus felt rather dejected and miserable as 
he trudged along the sodden roads, and did not once look back 
that day at the mist-wreathed face of Craigybarns. He was 
rather inclined to turn his back on Scotland just then, having 
got himself into a 4 drumlie ’ state of mind. He was just at 
Ballochraggan, when he heard a shout behind him, and, looking 
back, he saw a farmer’s gig' coming up rapidly, and recognised 
Donald Stewart, the farmer in Dalreoch on the Findowie side of 
the Braan. Fergus did not know him very well, for he was 
the largest farmer on the estate, and quite different from the 
cottars up the Glen. Dalreoch had very little to do with 
Angus M‘Bean, even, — his rent being paid half-yearly to Mr. 
Colquhoun at the office in Perth. But Fergus knew him by 
repute as a fine man ; and indeed his face, with its pleasant 
smile and honest, kindly eye, was enough to win respect and 
liking anywhere. 

4 Jump up, Mr. Fergus,’ he said heartily. 4 1 was sure it 
was you. If you had only sent me word I could have met you 
at the train. There’s nothing doing. We’re just waiting fine 
weather for the hay.’ 

‘It has been a lot of rain, I see, Mr. Stewart,’ answered 
Fergus, jumping up, nothing loth, for he had not specially 
enjoyed his tramp. 4 What a fine horse! She’s a splendid 
trotter, surely ? ’ 


HER RESOLVE. 


245 


‘Ay, Nellie knows her work/ said the farmer, nodding 
affectionately over at the mare. ‘ An’ she does it, which is 
more than some folk do. You’ve got your holidays, Mr. 
Fergus ? ’ 

‘ Yes, two months, if I go back to college,’ answered Fergus. 

‘ You don’t look very hardy. The hills will do ye good,’ 
said the farmer, looking kindly at the young man’s somewhat 
pale, thin face. Fergus had worried himself in Edinburgh, 
and worry always tells. 

‘ I don’t like the town. What’s going on up here ? ’ asked 
Fergus. 

‘ No’ much. Did the factor’s son not come over with ye? ’ 

‘No,’ returned Fergus, but did not tell the reason why. He 
was not a sneak or a tell-tale, though Angus would have told 
readily enough on him. 

‘ And what will ye do with yourself all summer, do you 
think ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know yet. They’re getting on better at the Fauld 
now, Mr. Stewart ? ’ 

‘ Ay ; the factor’s gotten a new master,’ returned Mr. Stewart, 
with a quiet laugh of enjoyment. ‘It disna dae to ask him 
hoo he likes the Leddy’s hand on his bridle, Mr. Fergus.’ 

‘ It’ll do him good. He’s a mean tyrant,’ said Fergus 
savagely, glad to get his vexation out on somebody. 

t And ye dinna like the college ? ’ said the farmer musingly. 

‘No. I’ll tell you what, Mr. Stewart; I’m going away 
after the Fauld folks to America,’ said Fergus, impelled to 
confide in his kind friend. ‘ I’m sick of this old country. 
What can it do for a fellow ? ’ 

‘It’ll dn ye good, Mr. Fergus. You’ll come back, and think 
there’s nae place like Scotland,’ said the farmer, seeing there 
was something amiss with the lad. ‘ No’ yet, Nellie ; up the 
brae, lass.’ 

‘ Oh, there’s no need, Mr. Stewart. I can walk perfectly.’ 

‘ I ken, but I’ll drive ye up. I’ve nothing to do, anyway, in 
this rain. Up, Nellie ! Besides, it’s a pleasure to drive ye.’ 

The kind word, as well as the kind action, comforted the lad’s 
sore heart, and took the chill edge off his return to Amulree 


2 [6 


SHEILA. 


He talked more heartily as they went np Ballinreich Brae, and 
parted with Mr. Stewart at the Keeper’s Wood with quite his 
old smile and ringing laugh. 

4 I’ll come down and give you a day at the hay for this, Mr. 
Stewart. It’ll keep me from wearying, anyway.’ 

4 All right ; see and come/ laughed the farmer, as he drove off ; 
and Fergus walked on rapidly to Shonnen. He was glad he 
did not meet anybody on the road, but when he reached the 
gate of Shonnen, he saw his mother watching for him at the 
window. She was on the doorstep when he reached it, and her 
eye shone as it fell on her fine young son — shone with a 
motherly pride and affection which were perfectly justifiable. 

4 How are you, Fergus ? I am glad you have come home/ 
she said, as she shook him by the hand. No warmer greeting 
than the hand-shake, so eminently Scotch, ever passed between 
them. ‘You are early. Did you get a drive part of the 
way ? ’ 

4 Yes, Mr. Stewart of Dalreoch drove me from Ballochraggan 
up/ said Fergus. ‘How are you, mother? I hope you have a 
good tea. I’m perfectly famished.’ 

Ellen Macleod went into the dining - room with a more 
buoyant step than usual, and a look of pleased satisfaction on 
her face. Fergus’s home-coming made a new interest in her 
life. 

‘Angus M‘Bean did not come with you?’ she said, as they sat 
down to tea. 

‘ No ; Angus was hardly ready to come home. He is not 
behaving himself as he might, mother. The lot he goes with 
had a spree last night, and I suppose he would have too much.’ 

‘You never keep company with that set, I hope, Fergus?’ 

‘ Not I. You’ve only to look at me to know that/ replied 
Fergus, with his mouth full. ‘ We’ll have to drop M ‘Bean’s 
nickname, I doubt. He’s as thin as a rake now. Anything 
new about Amulree, mother ? ’ 

‘Nothing. At least, I don’t hear it. You are looking well-7- 
not like a hard student.’ 

‘ I’m not a hard student/ responded Fergus frankly. ‘ Mother, 
I hate the whole thing ! I feel perfectly mad listening to the 


HER RESOLVE. 


247 


old professors droning away about things I’ve no interest in. I 
cant go on with it.’ 

‘There is nothing else for it, my son,’ said Ellen Macleod, 
with a peculiar pressure of her long, thin lips. ‘ It is not what 
you like, but what you can get to do, with you now.’ 

‘Mother, it’s a perfect waste of money, for I’m perfectly 
certain you could as soon make a minister out of Malcolm 
Menzies as me, — indeed, sooner, for Rob says that he has a poet’s 
soul, whatever that may be. I’m a perfect clod, mother. I’d 
rather hire to be a shepherd with Dalreoch, even, than go on 
at that old college.’ 

‘There is no use bringing up that vexed old question again, 
Fergus,’ said Ellen Macleod. ‘ Your destiny is fixed, and you 
can’t shirk it. You are a gentleman’s son, and though circum- 
stances have made you poor, you must act a gentleman’s part. 
There is nothing for you but the Church.’ 

‘ 0 yes, there is, mother. Uncle Graham left me a thousand 
pounds to stock a farm, he said,’ cried Fergus, alluding to his 
legacy for the first time. ‘ Mother, I’ve made up my mind. 
I think I’ll go out to Canada after the Fauld folks. A thousand 
pounds will go further there than here, and there is no distinc- 
tion. All men are gentlemen on the other side of the Atlantic.’ 

‘ Don’t talk so absurdly, boy,’ said Ellen Macleod, with a 
touch of her old impatient imperiousness. ‘ Do you think I 
would ever consent to your joining these people?’ 

Fergus reddened, and his brow clouded. Always the same ! 
Without sympathy or commiseration for his feelings, or aspira- 
tions, or desires. His temper rose a little, for the Macdonald 
blood was hot, and he had reached an age when authority is 
scarcely tolerable. His mother saw the struggle, but did not 
even admire the manliness which enabled him to keep silent out 
of respect for her. She was a strange woman. She had no 
interest, or tie, indeed, to bind her to life but her one son ; and 
yet she took a pride in making him completely subservient to 
her will. She would have him brave, manly, fearless, in every- 
thing and towards all but herself. She sought from the man 
the unquestioning obedience of the child. Mistaken woman ! 
She would live to regret it. A certain latitude must be allowed 


248 


SHEILA. 


to youth; even the duty of the child to the parent becomes 
sometimes a matter to be settled by conscience. There are, 
alas ! too many disobedient children ; but there are also incon- 
siderate, tyrannical parents. Ellen Macleod sought to be a 
despot, and, though her kingdom held only one subject, she was 
to find it a hard task to rule. 

A love of power is inborn in women, but it is tempered by 
the loving-kindness and gentleness of womanhood. But the 
latter had never been characteristics of this strong daughter of 
a Highland race. We will watch with interest the struggle 
between duty and inclination in the breast of Fergus Macleod. 



CHAPTER XXVIIL 

COUSINS. 

And life is thorny, and youth is vain, 

And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 

Coleridok. 

HEILA, upon my word, you are the loveliest girl I 
ever saw.* 

‘ Oh, Alastair Murray, you stupid, stupid boy ! 
I think I shall set Tory on you. I don’t 
think Edinburgh has improved you one single bit. Has it, 
Tory ? ’ 

Tory wagged his tail vigorously, and regarded Alastair with 
a menacing growl. The cousins were in the drawing-room at 
Dalmore. Alastair had just ridden up on his pony with a 
message from his mother to Sheila, and, being impressed by the 
great improvement in Sheila’s appearance, had given vent to 
his rapturous admiration in no measured terms. 

It was evident Sheila was growing up, indeed, for at her 
cousin’s praise a sweet, conscious flush mantled her cheek. 
She did look very fair in her pure white gown, with its broad 
black sash ; and what astonished Alastair most of all was that 
she had coiled her long plaits about her head, and made her- 
self look quite a woman. 

‘ It’s true, Sheila ; you’re a perfect stunner ! Be quiet, you 

249 





250 


SHEILA. 


little beast ! * he added to Tory, who sharpened his growl into a 
bark. 4 I say, Sheila, what a lot of fellows ’ll be sweet upon 
you immediately! I am, to begin with.’ 

Sheila laughed ; and the sweet sound filled the old room with 
a ringing echo of gladness. 

4 Do you know you are frightfully vulgar, Alastair Murray? 
I only wish Aunt Ailsa heard you. Is that what she sent you 
to say ? ’ 

4 No ; but I suppose I may utter a few words on my own 
account,’ said Alastair, in an injured voice. 4 You needn’t 
bother being stuck-up with me, you know, Sheila, because I 
won’t stand it. Well, my mother wants to know when you are 
coming over, and I want to know if you are going to bury 
yourself here for ever ? ’ 

Sheila’s bright face grew grave at these questions. 

4 1 am very busy just now, Alastair.’ 

4 Yes, I know. You "are the little old woman who lived in a 
shoe/ said Alastair, in his comical, good-natured way, 4 and I 
suppose we are of no account. Are we related to you, or are 
we not, Miss Murray Macdonald ? ’ 

1 Oh, Alastair, do be serious for a moment. You have no 
idea what a lot I have to do. I am so anxious to have these 
houses sorted at the Fauld before winter, and unless I keep 
going over and looking after it myself, there is nothing done.’ 

Alastair looked at his young cousin in amazement. She 
spoke like an old woman, and looked, at that moment, as if 
the whole care of a world rested on her slender shoulders. 

4 But, Sheila, haven’t you a factor? What’s the use of all 
the fellows you pay to do your work, if you have to look after 
them?’ he asked bluntly. 

4 You don’t quite understand, and it would take too long to 
explain, Alastair,’ said Sheila, smiling again. 4 When does 
Aunt Ailsa want me to come over ? 1 

4 As soon as you can. Cecily and Mabel are coming from 
London. Perhaps that may induce you, if you won’t come for 
us/ said Alastair pointedly. 

4 Aunt Ailsa knows I would rather be at Murrayshaugh 
than anywhere else in the world except here/ said Sheila. 


COUSINS. 


251 

4 But I will come over and stay for a few days with Cecily and 
Mabel very soon. When are they coming?* 

4 To-morrow. But I say, Sheila, are you really going to 
stay here now? My mother says she thinks you are, but I 
didn’t believe it.* 

4 Yes, Alastair, I am going to stay here now. It is home,’ 
said Sheila, and her eyes grew dim. 

4 How queer you are ! Don’t you care for dancing, and all 
the fun and flirting other young ladies like? for you are a 
young lady now, Sheila, — more’s the pity.’ 

4 1 like fun and frolic dearly, Alastair ; but there is a great 
deal of work to be done first,’ said Sheila, with such a grave, 
preoccupied face that Alastair stared yet more. To him 
Sheila was a great mystery. How any young girl, especially 
one so bright and beautiful as Sheila, should willingly bury 
herself in a place like Dalmore, and find her amusement in 
the worry and harassing detail of estate management, was a 
problem he could not set himself to solve. He had heard 
a good deal about Sheila and her Quixotic ideas at Muriays- 
haugh and from outsiders, but Sheila herself perplexed him 
profoundly. 

4 1 don’t know what will become of you, Sheila/ he said, a 
trifle hopelessly, as he gnawed the head of his riding switch, 
and mentally wished he could make growling Tory feel the 
weight of it. Tory evidently felt the weight of his responsi- 
bility, and did not approve of seeing a young gentleman in the 
Dalmore drawing-room, especially when he expressed himself 
with such unblushing candour. 

Big, good - natured Alastair had a curious vein of soft 
sentiment in his nature, and he had always been in love with 
his pretty cousin. I fear he was now to learn that that early 
love-making on the bonnie banks of the Logie was to have for 
him a more serious side. 

4 When w r ill you come, Sheila, so that I may fetch you?’ 

‘I’ll send a note over, Alastair. I can’t fix a day until I get 
things in order for my absence,’ said Sheila, with that delightful 
gravity which sat so quaintly upon her. ‘Won’t you have 
anything to eat after your long ride ? ’ 


252 


SHEILA. 


4 No, thanks ; just rose from dinner. Upon my word, Sheila, 
1 can’t get over the change in you.’ 

4 I must say the same of you. You are such a big man. 
We’re all grown-up,’ laughed Sheila. ‘If you will excuse me 
for a little, Alastair, I will put on my habit and ride down as 
far as Ballinreich with you. There are some sick babies there 
I want to ask for. Scarlet fever, I fear, but I hope not.’ 

4 All right. I don’t care what it is, as long as it tak* j s you to 
Ballinreich, and I can ride by you,’ said Alastair daringly. 
Sheila shook her finger at him as she ran out of the room. 

She did not keep him waiting long, and when she returned, 
in her dainty habit, with her bright, long plaits as of yore 
hanging to her waist, and the very smartest of little hats, just 
far enough off her head to shew the bright little ringlets on 
her brow, Alastair was hopelessly 4 done for ; * and to the end 
of his days he never saw any one equal to Sheila, though he 
was obliged to admire her from a cousinly distance. Sheila 
was not a coquette, and her cousin’s undisguised admiration 
rather disconcerted her. She knew she was fair, — her mirror 
told her so every day, — and she was glad, as she had a right to 
be, to think she was pleasant to look upon, but she was neither 
vain nor affected ; a perfect naturalness was the child’s chief 
charm. Half child, half woman, she was wholly, irresistibly 
winning. 

4 Have you seen Macleod since he came home ? ’ asked 
Alastair, as they cantered down the hill. 

4 No,’ answered Sheila; and perhaps it was the exertion she 
was making to keep her pony in curb that brought the vivid 
flush to her cheek. 

4 Poor Macleod 1 I’m sorry for him. He’s a fine chap, Sheila. 
Don’t you believe any one who tells you anything else.’ 

Sheila could have laughed right out, but her lips only curved 
in a curious little smile. 

4 And you know it’s awful rough on a fellow, I always say, to 
have a mother like yon,’ said Alastair, pointing over to Shonnen, 
which looked dark in the strong shadow of Craig Hulich. 
4 What do you suppose is to become of Macleod, Sheila? It 
won’t be very easy for him to settle down in Strathbraan as a 


COUSINS. 


253 


farmer, though I’ve heard him speak of it. His mother means 
him to be a minister, but I can’t fancy Macleod in the pulpit. 
Can you ? * 

4 No,’ answered Sheila, and her face was averted. She could 
not understand why it made her feel so strangely to hear 
another speak of Fergus, since scarcely an hour of the day 
passed when she did not think of him. 

4 Poor beggar ! I am sorry for him. He’s dreadfully cut up 
and down in the mouth sometimes,’ continued Alastair, regaling 
Sheila’s cousinly ear with scraps from his college repertoire. 4 1 
really can’t for the life of me think what’s to become of him. 
Can you ? * 

Poor Alastair! He was utterly unconscious that he was 
probing a sore, sore wound in his cousin’s heart. 

4 I daresay he will find a place,’ she said, with difficulty, and 
rather shortly, for she could hardly bear what Alastair was 
saying. It brought back all the old wretched feeling that she 
had no right in Dalmore, and that she had done a mortal wrong 
to Fergus Macleod. 

4 He’s a splendid fellow, Fergus. He always says he has no 
head ; but old Rolling Pin — that’s our mathematical professor — 
told the governor once that he had a splendid head, but wanted 
application. Fact is, Sheila, he’s rather put upon all round. 
Hulloa ! what are you crying for ? ’ 

4 1 wish you’d hold your tongue about Fergus Macleod!’ cried 
Sheila indignantly. 4 If you’ve nothing else to talk about, you 
can ride on by yourself.’ 

Alastair whistled. 

4 1 beg your pardon, Sheila. How in the world was I to 
know Fergus and you weren’t sailing in the same boat?’ he 
said, plunging deeper into the mire, and blissfully unconscious 
of it. 4 He’s a little priggish and queer when you come to think 
of it, though the best fellow I know. I say, what times we’ll 
have when you come over! Are they jolly girls, the Desarts, 
Sheila? You should know them, when you were at the same 
school.’ 

4 Yes, they are very nice. I am sorry I spoke so quickly, 
Alastair,’ said Sheila, turning to him with a lovely smile, which 


*54 


SHEILA. 


would have melted a much harder heart than his. 4 I am afraid 
I am cross and horrid, but I didn’t mean to be.’ 

4 Oh, come now, Sheila, don’t make me feel perfectly ashamed/ 
said Alastair. 4 I’ve enough to bear with the pride I feel at 
riding with such a fine young lady. You sit splendidly, Sheila, 
and what a pretty beast you have.’ 

4 Papa bought it for my birthday just the week before he 
died. Cameron told me, the last time he was able to be out of 
bed was to go to the library window to see Rob Roy when he 
was brought home,’ said Sheila, in a low voice, and with a 
yearning look in her soft grey eyes, which told Alastair how 
much she still missed the dead. 

4 Never mind,’ he said quite tenderly, and laid his big hand 
on Rob Roy’s glossy neck, to show sympathy for his mistress. 
4 We’ll have as jolly a time as we ever had in our lives when 
you come over to Murray shaugh.’ 

Sheila nodded, and they rode through Amulree in silence ; a 
handsome, well-matched pair, as more than one said who saw 
them go by. 

It was a lovely evening, the close of a perfect August day. 
The moors were purpling for the Twelfth, and even on these 
high lands there was a yellow tinge on the standing com, which 
promised an early harvest. As they cantered up the slope by 
the Keeper’s Wood, and swept round to the brow of Ballinreich 
Brae, the whole strath opened out before them a vision of beauty, 
with the green meadows and golden fields on either side of the 
river sloping up to the heather hills, which hemmed it in. The 
atmosphere was gloriously clear, and there was not even a haze 
of heat to obscure the view, and they could see, beyond the green 
stretches of the Athole woods, the dark face of Craigybarns, 
with its fir-crowned crest seeming to touch the pearly clouds. 

4 Confess now, Sheila, Strath braan is far bonnier than Glen- 
quaich,’ said Alastair teasingly ; but Sheila shook her head. 

4 It is pretty looking down, and Craigybarns and Birnam Hill 
are fine, but there is no loch, and the hills don’t seem so majestic 
as ours.’ 

4 You adore Glenquaich, Sheila. I think it a heathenish sort 
of place, though Fergus says there is good fishing in the lochs,’ 


COUSINS. 


2 55 


said Alastair. ‘Oh, you go off here, do you? Well, don’t 
catch scarlet fever or anything to prevent you coming over, 
mind.’ 

Sheila laughed, and held out her hand, which Alastair took 
with a flourish, and in fun raised it to his lips. 

1 Dancing and deportment a la Francais , taught here,’ he 
laughed. 4 Good-bye. I never saw anybody so jolly as you, 
Sheila.’ 

4 You are very jolly too, when you are not stupid,’ said Sheila, 
with her sweetest smile, for she really liked Alastair, who had 
always been kind to her at Murrayshaugh. 

So they parted, and Sheila rode slowly up the side of a 
barley field to the clachan of Ballinreich, and, leaving her pony 
in charge of a village urchin, entered the house where the 
children were sick. Somebody watched all her movements with 
an interest of which she was quite unconscious. Fergus was 
strolling up General Wade’s old road behind the Keepers Wood, 
and from the hill had seen the riders on the road, had heard 
their merry laughter, and observed the apparent tenderness of 
their parting. He was still in a restless, moody, irritable state 
of mind, inclined to be at war with himself and all the world, 
and when he saw Sheila and Alastair apparently so thoroughly 
satisfied with each other, it gave him a kind of grim pleasure. 
Nobody cared anything for him ; even Sheila never gave him a 
thought. Of course, Alastair had no more to do than woo 
and he would win, being one of the luckiest fellows in the world. 
After Sheila went up to Ballinreich, he threw himself in the 
heather, and started the grouse, who flew up with a whirr and 
a croak of alarm. Curiously enough, he had chosen a spot from 
which he could have unobserved a full view of the clachan, and 
could see Sheila when she came out of the house. When she 
did so, and mounted her pony, he picked himself up rather 
quickly, for, instead of turning back the way she had come, she 
came slowly riding up the old road, and would see him which- 
ever way he liked to turn. They had never met since that re- 
markable night after Macdonald’s burying, though they had 
thought a great deal more about each other than either knew. 
Sheila had not come far up the old road when she saw Fergus on 

22 


256 


SHEILA. 


the hill, and he noticed her give a start, and pull up her pony 
as if he had stumbled on a stone. He came slowly over the 
heather to the road, and lifted his cap when he was within a 
few yards of her. 

4 Good-evening, Miss Murray Macdonald,’ he said, not 
knowing what evil thing prompted him to call her by her 
formal name. She flushed all over, and then became quite pale. 
But she drew herself up in her saddle, and, instead of extending 
her hand, she merely acknowledged him by a distant little bow. 
Sheila showed very clearly that there was more of the woman 
than the child about her now. His greeting had hurt her 
sharply, but her pride came to the rescue. 

4 Are you not afraid to trust your pony on these abominable 
hill paths?’ Fergus asked, as he walked by her side. 

4 Rob Roy is very sure-footed,’ Sheila answered stiffly, still 
holding herself very straight, her sweet face white and cold- 
looking. But there was a blinding mist before her eyes, 
and she was obliged to keep her lashes down to hide it. 

‘I saw Murray up. He didn’t think it worth his while to 
call at Shonnen, though he and I are supposed to be friendly,’ 
said Fergus, with bitterness. 

4 It was my blame, perhaps ; — he brought me a message from 
Aunt Ailsa, and I offered to ride as far as Ballinreich with him,’ 
said Sheila quietly ; but Fergus only gave a grunt. Sheila 
looked at him in sheer amazement. What had come over him ? 
She had thought when she saw him, what a delightful talk they 
might have over old times, and what a pleasure it would be to 
tell him all she was doing and planning for Glenquaich. She 
could not help thinking, girl-like, in the midst of her distressed 
perplexity, what a handsome, manly fellow he had grown, 
handsomer even than Alastair, who was called 4 Murray’s braw 
son’ in Strathlogie. 

They moved on in perfect silence until they left the hill path 
and were out on the road again. Then Fergus stopped. 

4 Good-bye, then,’ he said, standing still, and lifting his 
defiant eyes to Sheila’s sweet face. He hated himself, he hated 
her, he hated all the world at that moment, poor fellow ! Life 
seemed so hard ; it held nothing for him but vexations and dis- 


COUSINS. 


*57 


appointment and despair. Ide thought the very people in the 
Glen had turned against him, and that they had given their 
whole love and allegiance to Sheila; and yet, as he looked at the 
sweet, dear young face bent upon him so anxiously, and even 
imploringly, he longed to ask her to forgive him, even to be 
again to him the Sheila of old. To his distorted imagination 
she seemed changed ; in reality, the change was wholly with 
him. 

‘I hope I shall see you again, Fergus,’ she said, and offered 
her hand ; but he did not take it. 

4 No, you won’t ; I’m going away/ he answered almost 
rudely. 

4 Where to ? ’ asked Sheila, with startled eyes. 

4 Anywhere, — to the devil, perhaps,’ was his extraordinary 
reply, and without another word he strode away. 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

SCHEMING STILL. 

An* oh ! it was a goodly tree 
I socht to mak’ a biggin' o\ 

Old Sono. 

N the factor’s business-room at Auchloy sat Angus 
M‘Bean and his hopeful son, in the grey dusk of an 
August evening. They were both smoking, and 
had grown a little confidential over their pipes. 

4 If it’s true that Macleod is going to America,’ said the 
factor, 4 there’s nothing in the way ; you have the ball at your 
feet.’ 

4 And suppose I don’t want to kick it?’ said young Angus, 
as he blew the smoke- wreaths gracefully over his red head, and 
turned his sallow countenance towards his father. 

4 Oh, but you will kick it, unless you are a perfect fool/ said 
the factor, assisting himself to a mouthful of perry. ‘ It’s 
not a position to be despised. Unless you’re a perfect fool, as 
I said, you’d rather be a laird than a factor.’ 

4 That’s quite true; but it strikes me the ball would need a 
prodigious amount of effort even to set it going,’ said Puddin’ 
reflectively. 4 In the first place, she won’t even speak to me. 
She looks at me as if I were dirt.’ 

4 Oh, nonsense ! Miss Murray Macdonald is too well bred a 

258 




SCHEMING STILL. 


259 


young lady to do that/ corrected the factor blandly. 4 Angus, 
I’m convinced that I’ve pursued the wrong tactics for a while. 
It never does to oppose a woman, even a very young one. I 
began by trying to circumvent Miss Murray Macdonald, and in 
the end she circumvented me. Think of the young chit making 
herself mistress of all her legal rights and privileges before she 
made a move ! I tell you, Angus, such a woman is worth the 
winning.’ 

4 She’d wear the breeks,’ said Angus plainly ; 4 at least, she’d 
try. But if it was me she had to deal with there would be a 
tough squabble. And so ycu think I might make myself Laird 
of Dalmore? Well, it would be a fine position; but I’ve no 
chance beside Macleod.’ 

4 Nonsense ! besides, he’s going aw r ay. I must give you a piece 
of advice. You must flatter her, and take a consuming interest 
in all her fads. Women swallow flattery the same as calves 
swallow milk — wholesale, and when you do become master of 
Dalmore, you can put your foot on all these little plans. Just 
think! after all my worry and trouble with these Fauld folks, 
she has made up her mind to build it up into a flourishing 
community again. She doesn’t approve of me, I can tell you ; 
but she’s fixed ; she can’t put me off for three years yet, — at 
least, she won’t, because the old man expressed the wish that I 
should stay. A lot can be done in three years, lad.’ 

‘You’re right; but suppose I was willing to court Miss 
Murray Maddonald, — mind, I don’t say I am, but supposing I 
was, — how am I to begin ? There is a gulf between Auciiloy and 
Dalmore.’ 

The factor screwed his face up into a knowing wink. 

4 When I was two-and-twenty I didn’t need a hint about 
courting,’ he said, with an ill-favoured smile. 1 If you want 
chances you can make them. She’s never out of the Fauld. 
What’s to hinder you meeting her accidentally there, and taking 
a deep interest in all that’s going on ? ’ 

4 I’ll think about it,’ said Puddin’, with rather a pleased, 
expectant expression on his face. The idea pleased him. He 
was bound to admire Sheila, as every one did, and the thought 
of making love to her was rather exciting. He was by no 


260 


SHEILA. 


means a novice in the art of love-making, both at home and in 
town. He had, indeed, a love affair going on in the Glen just 
then, but he did not mind having two strings to his bow. 
Puddin’ was an enterprising youth, and filled to the brim with 
consummate conceit and confidence in himself. 

‘ There’s a lot of nests in Achnafauld I would like berried,’ 
said the factor. ‘ That Malcolm Menzies, I hate the very sight 
of him. If the auld wife were dead I’d fix him up.’ 

‘ You can’t-,’ said Puddin’ serenely ; ‘ because Sheila has 
taken them up. Look what she’s done for them this summer 
already.’ 

‘True enough, she has done a lot. If old Macfarlane had 
been anything but a gomeril, I would have had the whole 
thing done, and the estate in splendid working order. What 
does a minister know about business? She just winds him 
round her little finger. I whiles wonder, Angus, whether 
the Laird had any inkling how things would turn out, and 
whether he did it all to torment me. It was a queer will, 
wasn’t it ? ’ 

‘ It did for Macleod, anyway, the insufferable prig ! ’ said 
Angus savagely. There was not much love lost between him 
and Fergus Macleod. ‘I won’t believe he’s off to America, till 
I hear he has arrived there.’ 

‘ I hope he’ll go. He might stand in your way/ said the 
factor cautiously. 

‘ He would if he could, but he never goes near Dalmore.’ 

‘ No ; there’s a dryness, thank goodness ! between Shonnen and 
Dalmore. Fergus Macleod’s wife, whoever she may be, will 
have an ill time of it with his mother.’ 

‘ I’m mair frightened for the Murrays, I confess, than Fergus 
or his mother,’ continued the factor, after another sip at his 
tumbler. ‘ They’ll look sharply after their niece, I’m thinking. 
I saw young Murray up not long ago. If they make a match 
of it, we’re done for, lad.’ 

‘ They won’t, if I can help it. I’ll make myself sweet to Miss 
Sheila, first chance I get,’ said Puddin’, as he pushed back his 
chair, and gave his fine collar a pull up. ‘ Anything to kill the 
time ; it’s a dull hole this for a fellow.’ 


SCHEMING STILE 


261 


1 Why don’t you shoot and fish, like other young men ? ’ 
asked his father. 

‘ Too much of a bore, and mighty hard work besides/ said 
Angus, with a yawn. 4 I’ll aw r ay and take a stroll up to the 
Fauld, and see if I can fall in with Malcolm Menzies; it is 
good fun to raise his birse, and it needs mighty little raising 
sometimes. The fellow’s more than half mad. He should be 
down at Murthly. I must tell him that.’ 

4 You’d better not go too far with him. He had a graip up 
at me the other day. When the passion’s on him, he does not 
care what he does/ 

4 I’m not afraid of him,’ said Angus, as he slouched indolently 
out of the room. The factor was disappointed in his son, who 
had not turned out the smart lad he had hoped and expected him 
to be. Not but that he was smart and dandified enough in his 
appearance, and his tailor’s bills were heavier than his class fees, 
but he had not as yet displayed any brilliance of intellect, el- 
even an ordinary business capacity. So to marry him to Sheila 
Macdonald was the present dream of the ambitious factor’s days. 
The two girls at Auchloy were miserable when their amiable 
brother w r as at home, and there were quarrellings in the house 
from morning till night. He was always jibing and jeering 
at them, and playing all sorts of unmanly tricks upon them. 
Poor Mrs. M‘Bean was sorely exercised by her grown-up family, 
and thought regretfully of the days when they were bairns at 
her knee, — they hardly repaid her now for the toil of that 
early time. 

Puddin’ lounged out of the house with a Tam o’ Shan ter stuck 
on the back of his red head, and, still smoking, sauntered up 
the road to the Fauld. It was after sundown, and a bonnie 
harvest moon was rising above Crom Creagh, making a soft, 
soothing, exquisite light over purple moor and placid loch ; but 
Puddin’ had no soul to admire any of nature’s fair pictures. 
He hated Auchloy, and but for one attraction could have 
wished to turn his back for ever on Glenquaich. The clachan 
was very quiet, though a subdued hum from the smiddy greeted 
Angus as he passed by the end of Rob Macnaughton’s house. 
He walked leisurely up over the bridge and down the back way 


262 


SHEILA. 


to Janet Menzies’ cottage, which he entered without ceremony, 
as if he were a privileged visitor. 

‘That’s you, wee M‘Bean!’ cried the invalid woman’s shrill 
voice, the moment his foot crossed the threshold. 4 Katie’s no’ 
in, so ye needna fash cornin’ further. An’ if she wad dae my 
biddin’, she wadna speak to ye though she were in. Ye come 
o’ an ill kind.’ 

‘Yes; but I’m an improvement on the old stock, Jenny,’ said 
Angus slyly, as he put his head round the door. ‘Tell me 
where Katie is, like a good old soul ! * 

‘ No, I winna. If she needs a convoy Malky can gang for 
her. If he heard ye speerin’ for her he’d break yer back 
for ye.’ 

‘ There would be two at that, Jenny,’ said Puddin’, in his 
bragging way. ‘ So she’s out of the clachan, that she needs a 
convoy ? Ye’ve let the cat out of the bag already.’ 

‘ Have I ? I didna say east or wast,’ said the old woman 
shrewdly. ‘ Awa ye go ; ye are ower like yer faither to be a 
bonnie sicht.’ 

‘ You ought to be glad of my company when they’re all out,’ 
said Puddin’, edging a little further in. ‘ Don’t you weary 
lying theie? * 

‘ Weary? Od ay; but what’s that to them? I’ll no’ be lang 
noo. I telt Katie the day that she widna be lang or she’d hae 
anither errand to Shi an. I’ll no’ see the winter.’ 

‘ No fear of you ! you’re as lively as ever, Jenny,’ said Angus, 
with a quiet chuckle, for she had unwittingly let out that Katie 
was away to Shian. ‘ Well, I won’t bide to bother you. Tell 
Malcolm I was asking for him.’ 

And, with a grin, Puddin’ took himself off. He went down to 
the loch side, and stood for a moment debating which way to 
go, but probably Katie would come home by Garrows, for the 
old road on the other side of the loch led through a lonely 
wood, which would be rather gruesome after nightfall. He had 
just decided to take the Garrows road when he saw Malcolm 
coming over the bridge from Kinloch, and stopped to have a 
word with him. He took a curious delight in aggravating poor 
Malcolm, who seemed to grow more moody and strange every 


SCHEMING STILL. 263 

day. Even Rob, his faithful friend and sympathizer, sometimes 
feared the lad was going clean out of his senses. 

‘ Fine night, Sir Malcolm,’ said Angus banteringly, the 
moment he was within hearing. ‘Looking over your extensive 
policies, eh? Many pheasants on your moors, eh? Would 
you give me a shot for the First?’ 

‘Maybe I will, Puddin’ M‘Bean,’ said Malcolm, with a 
strange, slow smile ; and he fixed his gleaming eyes, with a 
curious, furtive look, on the other’s face. 

‘ A thousand thanks, but I should not dare to intrude myself 
on Sir Malcolm and his distinguished company of friends,’ said 
Puddin’, laughing at his own poor attempt at wit. ‘ But you’ve 
got round the soft side of Miss Murray Macdonald. My ! what 
a fine steading you are getting! What if you set a match to 
it some night when you are in one of your tantrums ? ’ 

‘Ay, what if I did that, eh? It would be a bonnie lowe,’ 
said Malcolm quietly ; but his clenched hands were beginning 
to tremble, and the anger was rising within him. 

‘ You’d find yourself in Perth Penitentiary, or maybe in 
Murthly Asylum, if you tried anything of the kind ; but maybe 
there are worse places than Murthly for the like of you,’ said 
Angus, with a cruel, sneering smile. Instantly the blood rushed 
to Malcolm’s face, and, with a muttered exclamation, he stooped 
down and picked up a huge stone to hurl at his tormentor. 
But Angus was too quick for him, and, with a light laugh, he 
dodged round the end of the house, and cut across the burn, 
and out to the road. Malcolm, still muttering, and with his 
lace convulsively working, followed more slowly, but when he 
got round the corner Angus was out of sight. Poor Malcolm 
Menzies ! The struggling gleams of intellect, which Rob 
Macnaughton had hoped would grow brighter and clearer, 
until manhood and the full knowledge of his own inherent 
power would finally disperse the dark cloud which seemed 
to obscure the lad’s mind, were becoming dim and far 
between. Manhood brought no joy to the poor half-wit, no 
glorious sense of mental or physical strength. It seemed rather 
to cast a deeper shadow on his heart. Even the Fauld folks 
somewhat feared him at times, and bade the bairns steer clear 

23 


264 


SHEILA. 


of him. Poor Malcolm ! he would as soon have harmed a child 
as one of his own lambs, who knew his very voice and step. 
Katie was the only one who could manage him rightly, and he 
worshipped her. 

If he had the poet’s soul, as Rob had so often held, it had 
never found a voice. He had grown tired of books, and. even 
the rude music of the Gaelic had lost its charm. But who 
could tell what mystic music the lad’s soul felt and responded 
to out among the mountain solitudes, where the ripple of the 
burn or the shrill call of the curlew were the only audible 
sounds? He loved these wilds, and avoided more than ever 
the haunts and presence of men. Even his kind old friend 
the stocking- weaver saw him but seldom. 

With his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, he looked 
into the house. 

4 Where’s Katie ? ’ he asked his aunt. 

4 Oh, ye ken, ower to speer for Tam Burns at Wester Shian. 
There was a lad speerin’ for her enow, and that’ll be meanin’ to 
gie her a convoy.’ 

‘Puddin’ M‘Bean?’ asked Malcolm angrily. 

4 Maybe, an’ maybe no’ ; an’ if it was, can the lassie no’ hae 
a lad without you at her heels, Malcolm Menzies? Ye are a 
bonnie lad to tie yer sister up like that.’ 

4 Did ye tell him Katie w r as at Shian ? ’ 

‘Maybe I did, an’ maybe I didna. Come in an’ shut the 
door, an’ pit on some peats. I’m starvin’ lyin’ here.’ 

But Malcolm paid no heed. The very thought that Puddin’ 
M‘Bean should dare to go to meet Katie filled him with a 
burning indignation, and in a few minutes he was walking with 
long strides away west from the Fauld. 




CHAPTER XXX. 

love’s young dream. 

The merle said, Love is cause of honour aye, 

Love makeis cowards manhood to purchase. 

William Dunbar. 

OUT half-way between Auchloy and the bridge at 
Shian Angus M‘Bean met Katie. He heard her, 
before he saw her, crooning a love-song to herself, 
as she came swiftly on, not in the least timid 
though it was dark, but anxious to be home for her aunt’s 
sake. Katie might be thoughtless at times, but she had a 
warm, kind heart. She had on her Sunday gown, a fine brown 
merino, made with a full skirt and a pointed bodice, cut open 
at the neck, where lay the white folds of the kerchief Katie 
wore with such sweetness and grace. Her hat was over her 
arm, and the night wind was playing at will with her bonnie 
hair, and her fair cheek was flushed with the healthful exercise 
of her quick, steady walk. Katie had grown a little vain of 
late, for folks were aye telling her how bonnie she was, and, 
poor lassie ! she had no gentle mother to warn her not to lay 
such flattery to heart. But with all her little airs and conceits 
she was wholly winsome and loveable; and Angus M 4 Bean, the 
factor’s son, had begun to think more seriously about her than 
he had ever thought about anybody in his life. And Katie? 

*65 



266 


SHEILA. 


Had the years mellowed her old aversion to the lad who had 
tormented her at school, and even yet lost no opportunity of 
teasing her brother, who had no ready tongue to answer back? 
We shall see. 

She stopped her song quite suddenly when she heard the 
foot on the road, and when a sudden flash of the moon from 
behind a cloud revealed the figure in the distance. She hastily 
put on her hat, and even — oh, vain Katie! — gave her hair a hasty 
smooth, and let down her skirt, which she had gathered about 
her waist to save it from the dusty road. There was a demure, 
unconscious look in her sweet face, and she even managed to 
give a little start of surprise when Angus M‘Bean stopped in 
front of her, though she had recognised his foot a hundred 
yards away. 

‘Oh, Mr. Angus!’ she said, being much more civil to him 
than Malcolm ever was, ‘ what are ye doing here ? ’ 

‘What could I be doing except coming to meet you?’ he 
said gallantly. ‘ Why didn’t you tell me last night that you 
were going to Sliian, and I would have come all the way?’ 

‘Oh, that would have been ower much, besides auntie would 
have heard,’ said Katie shyly. ‘How did ye find oot I was 
at Shian ? ’ 

‘ Your aunt told me,’ said Puddin 9 unblushingly. ‘ She 
knows I have come to meet you, so there is no use being in 
such a hurry. It’s not often I have the chance to speak to 
you when there’s nobody by.’ 

‘ Were ye in the hoose ? * asked Katie. 

‘ Yes, of course ; when I want to see you, Katie, I don’t care 
who knows,’ said Angus, with great emphasis. ‘ It’s only you 
that is ashamed to be seen with me.’ 

‘I’m no’ ashamed,’ began Katie hastily. ‘But’ — 

Then she stopped, and the sweet, hot colour flushed all her 
face. 

‘But what?’ asked Angus, bending his face eagerly down 
to hers. 

‘ Dinna, Mr. Angus ; ye ken what way,’ said Katie, in 
distress. ‘ Ye ken what fblks wad say if I were to walk oot 
wi’ you, as ye are aye askin’/ 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


267 


‘Never mind them, Katie; they won’t do half so much for 
you as I would,’ said Angos, drawing her half-unwilling hand 
through his arm. He was quite sincere in what he said. His 
love for Katie Menzies was the purest and most honest feeling 
the factor’s son had ever given house-room in his somewhat 
empty heart. She was so sweet and pure herself, her influence 
over him could not be for anything but good. 

‘Let us go inside the dyke and across the moor, instead of 
keeping to the road,’ he suggested presently. ‘ I doubt Malcolm 
will be coming to meet you, and he hates me, I don’t know 
why.’ 

Katie shivered. 

‘ Ay, he’s like to kill me when he sees me speakin’ to ye,’ 
she said, and he felt her hand tremble on his arm. ‘ Malky’s 
awfu’ queer gettin’ ; I’m whiles feared at him mysel’.’ 

The impulse was on Angus M‘Bean to speak slightingly of 
Malcolm, and to say that Murthly was the place for him, but 
he would not hurt Katie if he could help it, so he held his 
peace. Katie stepped over the drystone dyke, and thought, as 
he helped her, how different he was from the Fauld lads, who 
were so rough and uncouth, and knew nothing of the little 
attentions which all women love. Katie was hankering after 
being a lady, and had often watched Sheila Macdonald riding 
on the roads, and felt a strange, bitter envy mingle with the 
love she bore her. Why should one have so much and another 
so little ? When a young heart begins to question the ordering 
of life it is upon a perilous brink, and needs a guiding hand ; 
but Katie had none. So, in her discontented moments, Angus 
M ‘Bean’s flattering attentions, bestowed at first because it was 
natural to him to make love to every pretty girl who would 
allow him, pleased and gratified her. He was gentlemanly in 
his manners when he liked, though he did not treat his mother 
or sisters to that side of his accomplishments. But the pastime 
begun in holiday-time was like to have a serious ending for 
all concerned. Katie had begun to think about Angus M‘Bean 
day and night. Whatever he might be to others, he was always 
kind, tender, and considerate for her ; then he was a gentleman. 
Poor Katie ! these two words ‘ lady ’ and ‘ gentleman ’ were 


268 


SHEILA. 


words of exaggerated import to her. She knew nothing of the 
ladyhood of mind and heart which is independent of all 
outward circumstances. Nor did she dream that Rob Mac- 
naughton, the stocking- weaver, stood upon a pinnacle of 
gentlehood which Angus M‘Bean, with his town airs and most 
silly conceits, would never reach. 

6 What a shame if Malky goes all the way to Shian 1 ’ said 
Katie, when they were away from the road. 

‘ Never mind ; it’ll do him good/ said Angus quickly. ‘ Katie, 
I want you to write to me when I go back to Edinburgh.’ 

‘ When do ye gang ? ’ asked Katie, in a low voice. 

‘ In three weeks. W^hat a short holiday this has seemed ! I 
used to weary at Auchloy, but not this time.’ 

‘ Hae ye no’ ? ’ asked Katie ; and her heart was beating, for 
she knew quite well that he meant she had kept him from 
wearying. ‘Is young Mr. Macleod gaun back too?’ 

‘I don’t know, and I don’t care, Katie. Fergus Macleod and 
I don’t get on. The fellow’s a prig, and thinks it’s a sin to have 
the least bit lark.’ 

‘ I aye thocht him very nice/ said Katie innocently, ‘ Div 
ye think him an’ Miss Sheila ’ll be man an’ wife yet?’ 

‘ I don’t think it likely/ said Angus, a little constrainedly, 
for he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be a 
suitor for Sheila’s hand himself. But, with Katie’s hand 
clinging to his arm, and her bonnie, sweet face looking up 
shyly to his, he did not seem to care a pin for Sheila or her 
inheritance. What if love for this little country girl, 
whose pure heart and sweet face were her only dower, should 
make a man of Puddin’ after all? He was certainly at his 
best with her. 

‘ Some says she’s to marry her cousin, young Mr. Murray/ 
said Katie, who seemed to take an absorbing interest in Sheila’s 
settlement in life. ‘Is he a nice chap, Mr. Angus?’ 

‘Nice enough ; soft a little/ said Angus, in his off-hand way, 
— not, of course, caring to tell Katie how persistently and 
completely Alastair Murray had ignored him in Edinburgh. 
‘ I shouldn’t care to marry Sheila Macdonald, Katie. Isn’t she 
a bit of a tartar ? ’ 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


269 


‘ She’s an angel, that’s what I think, Mr. Angus,’ said Katie 
simply. ‘I never saw anybody like her. I wish I was rich an’ 
grand like her, an’ could ride aboot on a horse, an’ build hooses 
for folk.’ 

* Perhaps you will some day, Katie.’ 

Katie shook her head. 

‘ There’s little chance. I’ll hae to bide in the Fauld a’ my 
days, likely, keeping the hoose an’ milkin’ Malky’s kye.’ 

‘ Would you leave Malcolm if I asked you, Katie? ’ 

Katie shook from head to foot, and in the clear moonlight 
she lifted her questioning eyes to her lover’s face. There 
was a strange look on her face — half terror, half wondering 
joy. It was the look of a woman seeking to know what a man 
has to give in return for her love and trust. Angus M‘Bean 
was quite in earnest, and his eyes met Katie’s without flinching. 
He meant no ill. It was an honest love he was offering the 
girl at his side. He had learned enough evil, no doubt, among 
his wild comrades in Edinburgh, but there was good left in 
him still. 

1 Oh, Mr. Angus, what are ye sayin’ ? What do you mean ? ’ 
she asked almost piteously. 

‘ What I say, Katie. Will you be my bonnie wee wife some 
day, when I have a home to offer you ? ’ 

A sob of gladness broke from Katie’s lips, and she allowed 
him to fold her to his heart, and to kiss her as a man kisses the 
woman of his choice. They were alone in the vast solitude of 
the moorland, with the loch gleaming whitely in the hollow 
below, and none to witness their betrothal but the stars that 
see all and keep silence. 

‘ But I’m no’ fit,’ whispered Katie at length, with all the 
humility of love. 1 Ye might marry somebody far grander an’ 
bonnier.’ 

‘ Nobody will ever be grander or bonnier than you to me, 
Katie,’ said Angus fondly. ‘ And I’ll never marry anybody but 
you. You do like me, don’t you, Katie?’ 

‘ Oh, I do ! I do 1 ’ sobbed Katie ; and Angus clasped her 
close again, and stroked her bonnie hair with a tender touch. 

He had never felt as he did just then. All that was best in 


270 


SHEILA. 


his nature rose to the surface, called forth by the mysterious 
influence of this young creature, who gave him the implicit 
trust of love. He even felt ashamed of his past life, of his idle 
dreaming, and frivolous, evil waste of golden opportunity, and 
in a vague, uncertain kind of way made a vow for the future. 
He would live a different life henceforth for Katie’s sake. 

4 Katie, you’re far better than me, but I’ll be better. I’ve 
wasted my time and behaved as I shouldna in Edinburgh, but 
I’ll be different this winter, you’ll see,’ he said manfully. 

If Katie had but known, she could have had no stronger proof 
of her lover’s sincerity than that whispered confession and promise 
of amendment. But she only looked up into his face and said, 
with all her loving heart in her eyes, — 

4 I dinna want ye to be ony better, for fear ye dinna like 
me.’ 

4 But what’ll they say at Auchloy ? ’ asked Katie, with a 
slight cloud on her brow, when, after a long lingering, they 
went on again towards the light in the Fauld. 

‘ My mother will be delighted, I know,’ said Angus at once. 
4 But, Katie, you’ll need to leave it all to me. I’ll make every- 
thing right. We’ll need to keep it quiet for a little, you must 
mind, will you, Katie?’ 

4 Oh, no’ me ; I’ll hand my tongue for ever if you like,’ said 
Katie. 4 I’ll be feared, ony way, for Malky kennin’. He’ll be 
in an awfu’ rage.’ 

‘Katie, I’m afraid I haven’t treated Malcolm very well. 
This very night I was teasing him. I won’t do it again. I’m 
a horrid fellow, not half good enough for you.’ 

4 Oh, dinna say that again 1’ pleaded Katie. ‘An’ Malky ’s 
awfu tricky.’ 

4 Ay ; but I try to anger him,’ said Angus, whose very nature 
seemed to have undergone a change in the last hour. 4 I’ll try 
a different plan with him. Maybe we’ll win him to our side. 
Anyway, you’ll stick to me, won’t you, Katie?’ 

4 Ay,’ said Katie, in a whisper ; but there was a world of 
confident resolve in that monosyllabic answer. Angus M 4 Bean 
felt like a different man. He could not believe that a simple 
declaration of love given and received could have wrought such 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


271 


a change. He had begun to pay attention to bonnie Katie 
Menzies more than a year before, to help to pass the holidays, 
a time which hung so heavy on his hands at Auchloy ; and 
even at the beginning of this holiday, when he had been struck 
anew by her winsome grace, he had had no idea of this. 
From jest to earnest it had verily been with him, but it was a 
beautiful earnest, which was to bear fruit in his life. In spite 
of her little weaknesses, Katie was a true woman at heart, and 
was not found wanting when a crisis came. 

4 I’ll go back to Edinburgh and work like blazes this winter/ 
said Angus cheerily, as they walked on hand in hand, but very 
slowly, it must be confessed. 

4 What are ye learnin’ at the college?’ Katie asked. 

4 Faith, I haven’t learnt much yet,’ Angus replied. 4 I’m 
supposed to be learning to be a factor. There’s the law 
classes, you know, I should attend. And then I have so many 
hours in the W.S.’s office in Castle Street. But I’ve been 
awfully idle.’ 

4 And when ye are done wi’ the college, will ye be like Mr. 
MfBean at Auchloy ? ’ 

4 Something like it, Katie. I hope I’ll be able to give you 
as good a house. What grand times we’ll have, won’t we ? ’ 

4 Splendid ! ’ answered Katie ; but there was a vague feeling 
of apprehension haunting her even in the midst of her 
happiness. She did not know what it was, but a little cloud 
seemed suddenly to have arisen on the horizon and obscured 
its brightness. 

4 You’ll not weary, though it should be a long time, Katie ? and 
you’ll write often, and so will I; and I’ll be back at New Year.’ 

‘But ye arena goin’ away for three weeks yet?’ 

4 No, that’s quite true, but I was only mentioning it. Is 
this the Fauld already ? What a short walk it has been ! ’ 

4 1 doot it’s late, for the smiddy licht’s oot, — and see, so is 
Rob Macnaughton’s ! What o’clock is’t ? * 

4 Ten minutes past ten 1 Impossible ! My watch must be 
wrong!’ exclaimed Angus, who could not believe that two 
hours had passed since he met Katie just below Auchloy, not 
two miles from the Fauld. 


SHEILA. 


272 

‘No, it’s richt; I’ll catch it,’ said Katie. ‘Guid-nicht; dinna 
keep me anither meenit.’ 

4 Let me come in and explain matters to them, and take the 
scolding,’ said Angus anxiously. 

4 0 no, that wad be far waur; Malky would be terrible mad. 
Guid-nicht ; ’ and, scarcely permitting a last kiss, Katie bounded 
through the clachan and into the house. Her aunt seemed to 
be asleep, but Malcolm was sitting by the fire, feeding it with 
peats, and wearing a very dark scowl on his face. 

4 A bonnie time o’ nicht this ! ’ he said, looking up at Katie. 
‘Are ye no’ feared to stravaig the roads in the nicht time 
yersel* ? ’ 

‘No’ me. Is auntie sleepin’?’ asked Katie, glad to get off 
so easily. 

‘Katie Menzies,’ said Malcolm, rising, his two big melancholy 
eyes glowing like live coal, 4 if ye gang oot the hills wi’ 
Angus M‘Bean again, I’ll kill baith him an’ you ! * 




CHAPTER XXXI. 

IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL. 

Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon; 
The world was all before them. 

Milton. 


U bad better get your books looked out, Fergus; 
I have got all the rest of your things ready,’ said 
Ellen Macleod to her son, after their early dinner 
on the last day of September. Fergus rose to his 
feet, and pushed back his chair. The question which had been 
in abeyance all the holidays must be answered now. 

‘Then I am to go back to the university, am I? ’ he asked. 

‘Of course. Isn’t that rather a superfluous question?’ she 
asked, with slightly elevated brows. 

‘ Mother, I hate to go 1 I’ll never do any good at it. I don’r 
think I can be a minister, even to please you.’ 

‘ And if you won’t be a minister, what, pray, are you going 
to do?’ she asked, with a slight sneer. She hated to have her 
plans set aside. Since Fergus could not be Laird of Dalmore, 
the next best thing for him was to follow in his father’s foot- 
steps. The best families in the country were proud to have 
sons in the Church. 

‘ I told you already, mother, what I would like,* said Fergus, 
with something of entreaty in his voice. i Let me go away to 




274 


SHEILA. 


America, to see for myself what the new world is like ; and 
perhaps,’ he added, with a slightly melancholy smile, ‘ I shall 
come back a better boy.’ 

‘Fergus, I know not what I have done that I should have 
such an undutiful son,’ said Ellen Macleod, with a touch of 
passion. ‘ Boy, I have planned, and schemed, and even sinned 
for you. I have exposed myself to insult and injury, in my 
endeavour to secure your rights for you. Where is your 
gratitude? Now that Dalmore is out of your reach, you ought 
to be thankful that such an honourable and gentlemanly calling 
is open to you.’ 

‘ I’m not denying that it is a good profession,’ said Fergus, 
a little sullenly. ‘ I’m only saying I’m not fit for it. Mother, 
I should be a curse to the Church instead of a blessing to it, as 
a minister should be.’ 

‘ You are only a foolish boy, who doesn’t know what he is 
talking about,’ his mother retorted quickly. ‘ When you are a 
year or two older, you will discover that I acted for your good. 
Why, Fergus, a minister is on equal footing with the highest in 
the land. He sits down at the most exclusive tables in the 
county. Just look at your own father. He was of no family, 
yet I married him. The Church levels all distinctions ; and you 
ought to be thankful, I say, that it is open to you.’ 

‘ But, mother, that isn’t the point. I know all you say is 
true, but 1 don’t want to wear a black coat and sit down at the 
exclusive tables in the county,’ said Fergus hotly. ‘I’m not fit 
for any of it. I’d rather take a shepherd’s place any day, as I 
said before, than be a minister.’ 

Ellen Macleod did not speak for a moment. She was very 
angry, and very determined, too. But she saw determination 
as strong written on her son’s brow, and began to realize that 
she had no longer a child to deal with, but a man who claimed 
a man’s rights to decide his own course in life. Fergus was 
now in his twentieth year, and looked even older. His tall, 
muscular figure was firmly set; his face had lost the boyish 
look. He was a handsome, stalwart, manly fellow, who did not 
lack decision of character or determination. But it is not easy 
to set a determined will against a mother ; and Fergus had been 


IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL . 


275 


so long under complete rule that he had a hesitation in claiming 
his own right of choice. But, whatever should be the result, 
the lad’s mind was absolutely fixed on the Church question. 
He knew that to bind him down by such trammels, and to lay 
upon his shoulders grave responsibilities, which only the grace 
of God can lighten, would be simply to ruin his life. He was 
not without foresight and shrewdness, and he had seen and 
knew of many melancholy examples, both of ‘stickit ministers, * 
and of those who, though in full charge, were not only useless, 
but who, by their inefficiency and unfitness, brought discredit 
on the Church. He would not add another name to that 
melancholy roll. Whatever his way of life, he would not make 
a failure of it. And all his tastes and inclinations and pursuits, 
though perfectly healthful and noble in themselves, were 
not of a kind which would sanctify the sacred calling of a 
minister. 

4 You had better look out your books/ said Ellen Macleod 
quite calmly, just as if the whole thing had been amicably 
settled. 4 Isn’t it upon Tuesday morning you will need to go ? 
and this is Saturday. There is no use having a bustle and 
confusion at the end.’ 

Fergus bit his lip. Undutiful, angry words rose to his lips. 
Had he been less noble and self-denying he would have had no 
scruple in uttering them. Possibly they might have done 
good. I believe there are occasions and circumstances in 
which filial obedience ceases to be a duty. But Fergus did 
hold his peace, though the effort was tremendous. He picked 
up his cap and ran out of the house, feeling at that moment 
that nothing but the fresh wind of heaven would give him 
relief. It was a fine, mild autumn day. There was little 
sunshine, but a kind of subdued brightness seemed to pervade 
the soft light clouds in the sky. The air was perfectly motion- 
less and still ; every sound in the far distance sounded clearly 
and distinctly, as if it were just at hand. The bleating of a 
sheep up on the very pinnacle of Craig Hulich sounded so 
close to Fergus, that involuntarily he started and looked round. 
The summer was over. The bloom was fading on the heather, 
and there were no fresh buds on the wild ffi wers by the way- 


27 6 


SHEILA. 


side. The summer had been early, winter would be early too. 
Most of the sportsmen had left Strathbraan and Glenquaich, 
and the remaining grouse possessed the heather in peace. 
Fergus noticed all these little things which went to make up 
the sum of a quiet day among the hills. He even looked at 
the dappled clouds moving eastward, and wondered how long it 
would be before rain came. The corn was all in stooks on the 
crofts, but in these low-lying fields, exposed to the wet from 
the loch, it took long to winnow. Farming in Glenquaich was 
certainly a trial of patience and faith. 

He walked on almost unconsciously by the rough, stony road 
to Kinloch, and through the clachan, quickening his step a 
little, not wishing to speak with any of the folks. There were 
few but bairns and old folk about, indeed, for all the able hands 
were in the harvest-field. The road which led to Shian, by 
the loch-side, cut through a bonnie birch wood for about half 
a mile, — a picturesque walk indeed, for the loch lay below, 
gleaming whitely through the drooping branches. Rowans 
were hanging in ripe red clusters, and even the bramble was 
taking on its richer purple hue. It was the birds’ harvest as 
well as the harvest of the cottars in Glenquaich. 

Fergus walked leisurely, with his hands in his pockets; but 
he took long, swinging strides, and, without any plan or effort, 
he seemed to come quite near to Shian shortly after he left the 
Lodge. He took up over the fields behind the old house of 
Shian, and came down on the kirkyard by a short cut. It was 
his first visit to his uncle’s grave. Before he vaulted the low 
wall, he saw at the opposite side a little carriage and two grey 
ponies he recognised at once. Somebody from Dalmore was 
visiting the burying - ground ; and when he looked to the 
corner where the Macdonalds lay, he saw Sheila down on her 
knees putting fresh flowers on the turf. In a moment he was 
over the wall, and had crossed to her side. He forgot every- 
thing but that it was Sheila, and that the sorrow in her heart 
was a sorrow he could understand and share. The dead were 
dear to her as they were to him. It came upon him then, 
quite suddenly, that Sheila, in spite of her great inheritance, 
was very forlorn. She had nobody in the wide world she 


IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL. 


277 


could call her own ; and then she was a girl — one to whom 
love and companionship were like the breath of life. 

4 Sheila,’ he said, his voice made very soft by the strong 
feeling of his heart, 4 how are you to-day ? ’ 

Sheila started up, for she had not heard him come, but she 
had a smile for him, and when they shook hands he felt hers 
tremble. 

4 This is the first time I have been,’ she said simply, as she 
stooped to place a bunch of late roses at the head. 4 How 
strange to see you here ! Do you come sometimes ? ’ 

‘Never; this is the first time,’ Fergus returned. ‘Sheila, 
I was a brute to you last time I saw you. Forgive me for it.’ 

4 O yes. I did not think about it in that way/ she said ; 
and he knew she had thought of it, but with what bitterness of 
heart he little dreamed. 

Her mouth quivered, and he saw her shake from head to foot 
as she still bent over the grave. She was very desolate, poor 
child ! It seemed to her at that moment that all she loved lay 
beneath that green mound, and that there was very little worth 
having left in the world. 

4 Don’t stand here, Sheila ; it is not good for you/ said 
Fergus impulsively. 4 Are you driving alone?’ 

4 Yes ; Miss Gordon would have come, but I thought I 
should like to be by myself.* 

1 Will you let me drive you home, Sheila?* 

4 Of course, Fergus ; it will be delightful/ she answered ; and 
he saw a glad look steal into her eyes. After all, she was the 
same. He had only imagined a change in her. 4 How quiet it 
is here ; but oh, how lonely ! When it gets dark, and the wind 
moans through these trees, I should be afraid/ she added, with a 
slight shiver. 

It had done her no good to come. There is no comfort to 
the hungry heart of the living in viewing the last resting-place ; 
it seems to widen the distance between the loved who have 
gone within the veil. Such was Sheila’s thought, unexpressed, 
but felt deeply in her heart. Fergus felt perfectly happy as 
he handed Sheila into the carriage, and, jumping in beside her, 
took the reins. They had no thought of what the folks would 


278 


SHEILA . 


say ; and, I daresay, if they had thought of it, would only have 
laughed. Were they not more like brother and sister than 
anything else? So Shian folks were exercised that afternoon 
by the sight of Miss Murray Macdonald’s carriage crossing the 
Quaich Bridge driven by Fergus Macleod. 

‘ You never come up to see me/ said Sheila, a little mis- 
chievously, as they bowled smoothly along the road. ‘What 
have you done with yourself all summer?’ 

‘ Lounged about, and done nothing. I did put up hay at 
Dalreoch one day, and I tell you I liked it. I’m thinking of 
feeing with Mr. Stewart as shepherd, instead of going back to 
Edinburgh this winter.’ 

‘ Then you would live in the shepherd’s house at Girron ; and 
I should amuse myself at our drawing-room window watching 
you rescuing the sheep from the drifts, and falling into them 
yourself/ said Sheila, with a smile. 

But Fergus grew suddenly quite grave and silent. ‘Sheila, 
I wish you’d tell me what to do/ he said abruptly. 

‘What about, Fergus?* 

‘ I can’t make up my own mind. My mother insists that I 
must go back to college and finish the course. I want to go 
to Canada. I had a letter from Donald Macalpine. They are 
getting on splendidly, Sheila, and never wishing they were back/ 

‘ Don’t go to Canada, Fergus/ 

Sheila’s sweet voice faltered, and a strange thrill shot to the 
young man’s heart. What a strange, sweet thought it was, that 
anybody — especially Sheila — should wish him to stay for his 
own sake ! 

‘ Well, but I can’t be a minister, Sheila. I’d do some dreadful 
thing if I found myself in a pulpit with one of those fearsome 
black gowns on. And how could I make up sermons or say 
prayers? I’m not half good or reverent enough. I have no 
convictions of duty in that direction at all; so how could I be a 
minister?’ 

‘ Have you tried to tell your mother how you feel about it?’ 
Sheila asked, with a slight hesitation; for she had really never 
quite got rid of her childish fear of Ellen Macleod. 

*I’ve tried/ Fergus answered gloomily, ‘ but it’s no use. She 


IN BITTERNESS OF SOUL. 


279 


can’t understand, and I don’t know what to do. It’s not easy 
for a fellow to know what’s his duty in this world. What do 
you think ? ’ 

‘Fergus, how can I tell? Perhaps — perhaps, I think, you 
ought to obey your mother.’ 

‘ If I do, it will be the ruin of me. I shall never do an atom 
of good in this world to myself or any other body. I’ll be a 
stickit minister, Sheila, and bring disgrace on my folks.’ 

‘ Not you. Whatever you do, you won’t stick ; and you know 
it,’ she said, with quick confidence, which sent another warm 
glow to Fergus’s riven heart. ‘Do you think your mother will 
not relent after a while?’ 

‘ I am sure she won’t,’ Fergus answered gloomily. 

‘ Oh, perhaps she will. In the meantime, if I were you, I’d 
go back to Edinburgh and learn with all my might,’ said Sheila 
cheerily. ‘Here we are at Auchloy. Just look at the dining- 
room window, Fergus, and see how many heads there are.’ 

‘One, two, three; and there’s Puddin’s beacon,’ said Fergus, 
making a wry face. ‘Well, we’ve given them something to talk 
about.* 

Sheila laughed too. 

‘You always call him “Puddin”’ yet. What an atrocious 
name it is 1 * 

‘ Good enough for him.’ 

‘ Oh, why ? He is rather amiable, I think. He has been up 
at Dalmore once or twice, and both Miss Gordon and I think 
him much improved. They say in the Fauld, Fergus, that he 
is courting Katie Menzies.’ 

‘Katie Menzies? Never! He’d better take care. If he 
makes fun of Katie I’ll be into him.’ 

‘Why, Fergus, how very pugnacious you are! So you are 
Katie’s champion? Well, I shouldn’t like to be your rival,’ 
said Sheila teasingly. 

‘ Oh, come now, Sheila. I’m not his rival at all, only I can’t 
have him come making a fool of our village beauty. Why, if 
you knew the fellow as I know him, and the company he keeps,’ 
said Fergus scathingly ; ‘ he’s not fit to speak to Katie Menzies, 
or to sit in the drawing-room at Dalmore.’ 


280 


SHEILA. 


‘You are very hard on him — too hard, I think. I am sure 
he has improved,’ said Sheila quietly ; but her eyes were deeply 
shadowed. She did not like this hard, bitter, uncharitable side 
of Fergus. She began to fear that years had not improved him. 

They did not talk very much as they swept along the road to 
the school ; and when Fergus had carefully turned the corner, 
and set the ponies’ heads towards the Girron Brig, he gave Sheila 
the reins, and jumped out. 

‘ Good-bye, then, Sheila ; and thank you for allowing me to 
drive you,’ he said, a trifle formally. 

‘Thank you for driving me,’ Sheila answered, as she gave 
him her hand. ‘ Shall we see you at Dalmore before you go ? * 

‘ I don’t think so. I have not the same interest in the place 
now.’ 

It was a cruel speech, only from the lips. Fergus did not 
know what always prompted him to hurt Sheila like that. She 
busied herself with the reins, and when they were straight she 
took the ponies’ heads so sharply that they gave a step backward. 

‘I could wish, Fergus Macleod, that I had never seen Dal- 
more,’ she said ; and her eyes were bright and stedfast and cold, 
and her voice clear and distinct as a bell. ‘ It is a burden upon 
me I am scarcely able to bear. Good-bye.’ 




CHAPTER XXXIL 

alastair’s wooing. 

Love sacrifices all things 
To bless the thing it loves. 

E. B. Lytton. 

HE resuit was, that Fergus went back to Edinburgh 
on the 3rd of October, and Ellen Macleod imagined 
her victory complete. Looking forward, she saw a 
vision which pleased her well, — her son established 
in his father’s parish of Meiklemore (the minister of which was 
now an old man), and herself installed once more as mistress of 
the manse. She would gladly quit Shonnen any day. She had 
nothing to bind her to the place ; and Dalmore, which she 
could see so splendidly from the windows of the Lodge, was 
a constant eyesore to her. She was a consummately selfish 
woman. Her planning was for her son, but it was always to be 
good for herself likewise. She did not admit the possibility, 
even, that Fergus might desire to take a wife. Ilis first duty, 
she considered, was to her. But Fergus had not the remotest 
intention of becoming minister of Meiklemore or of anywhere 
else. He was, for the time being, completely soured. Every 
hope and ambition blasted, the lad grew careless about every- 
thing. From idle habits he drifted into questionable company. 
Had his mother known how that winter session was spent, she 




2 82 


SHEILA . 


would have regretted forcing his inclination. The weekly 
letter, so dutifully written when he first went to Edinburgh, had 
become a thing of the past. From the 4th of October till 
Christmas, he did not send home a single line. I do not defend 
him, neither do I blame him wholly. Never had mother a 
more loveable, obedient child ; never had child so harsh and 
inconsiderate a mother. It was to be expected that, sooner or 
later, the opposing wills must clash. Ellen Macleod was not fit 
to have that fine nature in her keeping. She had done her 
best to break that high, manly spirit, but had only warped and 
soured it. Every generous impulse, every impetuous boyish 
enthusiasm, she had chilled by the narrow coldness of her creed. 
The world was a mean, sordid place in the eyes of Ellen 
Macleod, — human nature a poor, empty, selfish thing; — and she 
had done her best to implant her ideas in the mind of her son. 
She had tried to make him believe himself wronged and abused 
by others, but in vain. The lad wanted no heritage but his 
own grand dower of manly independence, perfect health, and 
noble desire to cut out his own path in life. Poor fool ! she 
would not even let him enjoy these, his heaven -born gifts. 
She fretted her own heart out for what was not hers, and tried 
to implant in him a similar weakening discontent. And when 
he turned upon her, and repaid her poor training with the 
indifference of a chilled and disappointed heart, she wrapped 
herself in the garb of self-righteousness, and esteemed herself a 
martyr. The whole world trampled upon her, even her own 
son, whom she had borne and reared. 

So the winter dragged itself wearily away. Ellen Macleod 
lived her dark, melancholy days at Shonnen, with nothing to 
break their monotony, and Fergus — But I will not dwell 
upon this part of my hero’s career. That blemished page was 
only laid bare to one, and then turned down for ever. Wiry, 
then, should we seek to pry into it? But I will say that, 
though he was weak, erring, blameworthy, he avoided the 
grosser sins in which too many of his colleagues indulged. 

At Christmas, Alastair Murray came home as usual, Angus 
M‘Bean also, but there was no word from or of Fergus. Ellen 
Macleod passed two days of consuming anxiety, and then walked 


ALASTAIR'S WOOING. 


283 


over to Auchloy. She was a gaunt, haggard-looking woman, 
grown old before her time. She did not take life easily, and 
those who worry and fret themselves must carry with them the 
outward seal of their discontent. Her dark, penetrating eye 
gleamed restlessly, her brow was deeply lined, her mouth 
marked by anxious, nervous -looking curves, which betrayed 
her inner unrest. She was greatly to be pitied. There did 
not exist in the wide world a creature more utterly desolate 
than she. She was shown into the smart drawing-room at 
Auchloy, and while she waited for Mrs. M‘Bean, she looked 
contemptuously round the place, which was very showy, and 
much decorated by the fair hands of Jane and Bessie. 
Specimens of their skill in needlework and their artistic 
tendencies were visible everywhere. The paintings on the 
walls, signed by them, were productions of a fearful and wonder- 
ful kind. Mrs. Macleod was kept waiting quite a quarter of an 
hour. It was eleven o’clock in the day, and Mrs. M‘Bean was 
still in her housewifely morning gown, and the young ladies in 
wrappers and curl-papers. Mrs. M 4 Bean, being without pride, 
would have gone as she was into the drawing-room, but her 
daughters were horrified at the suggestion, and carried her up- 
stairs to be dressed hastily. The consequence was that, after a 
time, Mrs. M‘Bean, very hot and flustered-looking, and wearing 
a very stiff black silk gown, quite out of place in her own house 
at that time of the day, at last managed to reach the presence 
of Mrs. Macleod. 

4 I’m sorry, I’m sure, to have kept you waiting so long, 
ma’am,’ said she, the moment she was in the room, and to the 
horror of Miss Bessie, who was listening outside the door; 4 but 
the lassies would hae me to put on my best goon. I hope I 
see ye weel, Mrs. Macleod?’ 

4 1 am quite well, thank you,’ replied Mrs. Macleod, a little 
stiffly. 4 1 must apologize for my early call. It was your son 
I asked for. Is he not at home ? ’ 

4 He’s at hame, but he’s no’ in the hoose,’ responded Mrs. 
M‘Bean. 4 1 can send one of the lassies to look for him, if ye 
like.’ 

4 Oh, it doesn’t matter. I can see him again, I daresay. I 


284 


SHEILA. 


only wanted to ask him about my son. I — I have not heard 
from him lately, and I thought Angus might be able to tell me 
something about him.’ 

Mrs. M‘Bean — motherly, feeling-hearted woman — looked at 
the unhappy mistress of Shonnen with genuine compassion. 

‘ He’s weel enough, onyway,’ she said consolingly, ‘ for I hear 
Angus speaking aboot him. He saw him just afore he left 
Edinburgh/ 

‘Did he? Did he say what he was doing ?’ inquired 
Ellen Macleod, with an eagerness she could not repress. It 
cost her pride something to make these inquiries, but for 
the moment motherly anxiety was stronger than pride. 

‘ I doot he’s no’ daein’ just unco weel,’ said Mrs. M 4 Bean, with 
blunt candour. ‘ Oh, ma’am, speak to me as ye like ; I ken 
a’ aboot it. My Angus gaed on the veia same way when he 
gaed to college first. The maister says a’ young men maun 
come to the end o’ their tether.’ 

‘ Does Angus say my son is not behaving as he should, then ? ’ 
asked Ellen Macleod, with a sharp effort. 

‘Ay, weel, maybe he taks a drap o’ drink, or plays a game 
at the cairds, or gangs oftener than he should to thae ill places, 
the theatres, that if I were the Queen I’d stamp off the face o’ 
the earth. They’re the perfect ruination o’ laddies and lassies, 
no’ to speak o’ aulder fules, that find the deil’s pleasure in them,’ 
said Mrs. M‘Bean, with honest indignation. ‘But dinna fash 
yersel’, Maister Fergus is a guid, guid lad at the bottom. He’ll 
come to the husks quicker nor my laddie. I’m thankfu’ he 
has clean picket himsel’ up this winter, an’ he’s workin’ wi’ a’ 
his micht, an’ livin’ as I wad hae him live. But I ken what 
you feel. Many a sleepless nicht hae I putten in aboot Angus 
M‘Bean.* 

Ellen Macleod rose. Perhaps she had heard more than she 
wished or expected. She had very little to say. Mrs. M‘Bean’s 
homely-offered sympathy was irksome to her. She felt humili- 
ated that she should have called it forth. But her worst fears 
were realized. Fergus was following in the prodigal’s footsteps 
in Edinburgh. What, then, was to be done ? 

She thanked the factor’s wife somewhat stiffly for her informa- 


ALA STAIR'S WOO/JVG. 


285 


tion, and took her leave without so much as looking at the two 
young ladies, who were lingering about the hall, anxious to 
commend themselves to the lady of Shonnen. As she slipped 
out of the gate of Auchloy, a carriage came sweeping along the 
road from Shian. It was open, and in it sat Sheila, looking 
lovely in her warm winter attire, with the rich furs making a 
dainty setting for her sweet face. She flushed up at sight of 
Mrs. Macleod. The natural kindness of her heart prompted 
her to stop the carriage and offer her a drive, but it was as 
well she restrained herself. Ellen Macleod could not at that 
moment have given her a pleasant answer. It increased her 
bitterness to see the young mistress of Dalmore looking so 
bright and bonnie, riding in her own carriage, to which Ellen 
Macleod thought she had no right. Sheila had been at the 
graveyard with a wreath of Christmas roses. She was going 
over that day to Murrayshaugh to spend her Christmas, and, 
with a tender, sensitive thought, wished to leave a remem- 
brance for those who would spend no more Christmases on 
earth. 

That afternoon, over a cosy cup of tea in Lady Ailsa’s boudoir, 
Sheila told of meeting Ellen Macleod. 

‘1 am very sorry for her, Sheila,’ said Lady Ailsa gently. 

4 Alastair says her son is not doing very well in Edinburgh.’ 

4 In his classes, does he mean ? ’ asked Sheila, \vith her eyes 
in her tea-cup. 

4 No. He is not behaving himself. He is drinking a little, 
and keeping company with a wild set. I am very sorry for 
him.’ 

4 Aunt Ailsa, I don’t believe a single word of it — not one ! ’ 
cried Sheila indignantly, and her big eyes flashed fire — 4 not a 
single word ! I don’t believe Fergus Macleod would drink or 
do horrid things. He has been frightfully ill-used by every- 
body, I think ; and I wish I knew how to make it up to him. 
And it’s perfectly abominable of Alastair to tell such stories 
about his chum 1 ’ 

Sheila had a temper of her own. Her aunt looked at her in 
amazement, which slowly melted away as a light dawned upon 
her. 


286 


SHEILA . 


* Fergus has a spirited champion, at any rate,* she said, a 
little dryly ; for a hope she had formed for her own son was 
suddenly quenched. 4 Alastair had no object in telling a false- 
hood about his chum, and my belief is that he has not told the 
worst. Whatever Alastair is, he is not spiteful. You are not 
just to your cousin, Sheila. But we will not allude to this 
vexed question again. What are you going to wear to-night, 
then ? * 

4 1 don’t know, and I don’t care ! Aunt Ailsa, I am perfectly 
miserable ! ’ cried Sheila, and there were real tears of pain in 
her bright eyes now. 4 If Fergus Macleod had been Laird of 
Dalmore now, he would have been a good man. What use is it 
to me? It is just a burden on me, and nobody will take it 
from me.’ 

4 Will they not ? There are plenty waiting for the chance, 
I can tell you,* said Aunt Ailsa comically, though she was 
truly sorry for her niece. ‘More than one gentleman to-night 
would gladly take Dalmore, and its bonnie mistress to the 
bargain.’ 

Sheila laughed. Her anger, flashing up in a moment, was 
gone as speedily ; but Lady Ailsa saw that there was a sting 
left about Fergus Macleod. There was a party for the young 
folks at Murrayshaugh that night, — one of those quiet but 
delightful entertainments for which Lady Ailsa was famous. 
She made home home like and happy for her boys, and they 
simply adored her, and thought Murrayshaugh the dearest 
place in the world. It was a sight to see the little mother 
surrounded by her six tall sons ; Roderick, the youngest, was 
fifteen now, and only half a head less than Alastair. But when 
Sheila came, their allegiance was divided. Sheila was a prime 
favourite among all the boys, but poor Alastair had begun to 
think of her lately with something more than cousinly affection. 

Sheila came down to the parlor that night in a white silk 
gown, with the Macdonald tartan at her waist and on her sleeves, 
and a big bunch of white heather fastening her bodice, which 
was cut low, to reveal the white, stately contour of her throat. 
Her bright brown hair was coiled round her dainty head, and 
she looked like a young queen as she moved about, with a kind 


A LAST AIR'S WOOING. 


287 


word and ready smile for all Aunt Ailsa’s guests. Many 
admiring glances followed her ; but Sheila was supremely un- 
conscious of her own bewildering charms, and so was wholly 
irresistible and winning. 

4 Sheila, if you don’t play this game with me, I’ll be savage,’ 
said Alastair, when the party was about half over. 4 You’ve 
been playing with a lot of blessed fellows you’ve no right to 
speak to.’ 

4 Dear me! Alastair Murray, I thought all Aunt Ailsa’s 
guests would be gentlemen,’ said Sheila mischievously. 

4 Oh, well, I suppose they are. But, you know, / have some 
sort of a right to attention, haven’t I?’ 

4 Oh, I daresay. But I’m tired, Alastair. If you like to get 
me a shawl, I’ll go out with you.’ 

Alastair departed in rapture, and brought her somebody’s 
wrap from the cloak-room, a dainty cloak of Stuart tartan 
silk, lined with swan’s-down, and fastened with two big silver 
buckles. 

4 That isn’t mine, Alastair. It’s Alina Stuart’s. See ! ’ 

4 Never mind ; you won’t hurt it. Come on, or the thing’ll 
be over in a minute.* 

So Alastair took her on his arm, and led her out to the 
terrace, where it was quiet and delicious, for the night was 
wonderfully mild for December. It was like to be a green 
Yule, though they had had several snow showers up at 
Amulree. 

4 Sheila, nobody in there can hold a candle to you. 
We are all proud of you,’ began Alastair, in his outspoken 
fashion. 

4 How can you speak such utter nonsense, Alastair 
Murray ? * 

4 It is not nonsense ; it’s gospel,* said Alastair, too much 
in earnest to be particular about his words. 4 1 hope you 
won’t go and take up with any of these fellows, and — and 
marry them.* 

4 How many of them ? * 

4 Oh, well, one, of course. But you needn’t laugh at me, 
Sheila. I’m awfully fond of you. I don’t suppose, now, you 

25 


288 


SHEILA. 


could care anything for a big, rough chap like me, could 
you ? * 

4 1 do care a great deal for you, Alastair,’ said Sheila, not 
thinking, perhaps, of the hidden meaning in her cousin’s words. 
Her heart — ay, and her thoughts — were in Edinburgh with 
Fergus Macleod. Was she now beginning to awaken to the 
pain and yearning of her womanhood ? Alastair saw the pre- 
occupied look. There was nothing in the frank, cousinly 
avowal to encourage him ; nevertheless he went bravely 
on. 

4 You don’t understand me, Sheila. I — I care about you in 
a different way. I love you, Sheila.’ 

‘Oh, Alastair, don’t say such a dreadful thing!’ cried Sheila, 
with crimson face, and hastily withdrawing her hand from 
his arm. 

‘It isn’t dreadful — at least to me,’ said poor Alastair, quite 
humbly. ‘ I’m in earnest, Sheila. Don’t you think, after a 
while, you might like me in that way ?’ 

‘ Oh, never ! it is quite impossible,* said Sheila, quite 
decidedly. ‘Don’t let us be so foolish. We are cousins and 
chums, Alastair, and will never be anything else. Don’t look so 
miserable. You’ll find you won’t care anything to-morrow. 
You’ll laugh at yourself.’ 

‘Will I?’ Alastair pulled his yellow moustache rather 
savagely. 4 That’s the way you girls speak. You know 
nothing about a man’s feelings, and care less.’ 

‘ I do care, Alastair,’ said Sheila softly ; and he saw she was 
vexed. 

4 Don t make that kind of face, Sheila. You make me feel 
that I am a wretch. Come on in, and be my partner at tea, 
and I’ll never speak of it again, — at least, for a long time. 
Don’t you hear them playing “ Lady Anne Lindsay ” ? it’s 
grand.’ 

Sheila smiled, and put her hand on his arm again. 

‘ Before we go in, Alastair,’ she said, in a low voice, as 
they came near the open door, ‘ will you tell me if it is 
true that Fergus Macleod is not behaving himself in Edin- 
burgh ?’ 


ALASTAJR 'S WOOING. 


289 


‘Poor fellow 1 he’s awfully down in the mouth, and perhaps 
he has gone a little off the straight ; but he’ll never do any- 
thing very bad,’ said Alastair, with a manly kindness which 
showed his true, honest heart. 4 Don’t vex yourself abcut him, 
Sheila, and don’t mind what I said. I — 1 forgot about Fergus 
Macleod.’ 




CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. 


The price one pays for pride is mountain high, 
There is a curse beyond the rack of death, 

The curse of a high spirit, famishing 
Because all earth but sickens it. 

Bailey. 


night of the year, a night of blinding 
i which it was unsafe to be out of 
wind was sweeping up Glenquaicli 
fic force, and howling round Shonnen 
with many an eerie, uncanny noise. By her melancholy hearth, 
with her arms folded across her breast, sat Ellen Macleod 
alone, thinking of her son. The last night of the year 1 — other 
mothers had their bairns gathered about the hearth ; even the 
poorest household in the Glen made some attempt at social, 
happy renunion on the last night of the year. But in the 
house of Shonnen that desolate and miserable woman was alone 
with her anxiety and her regrets. She wished she had been 
less hard with her one son. She thought if he would but come 
in, she would give him a welcome such as he had never 
received. She even planned a letter she should write on the 
morrow, asking him to come home, and telling him she would 
no longer insist that he should follow in the path she had 
marked out. It had been a long, dreary day ; it was even then 

.‘JO 



T was the last 
snowdrift, ii 
doors. The 
with a terri 





THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. 


291 


only half-past seven, and each minute seemed like an hour, not 
only to her, but to poor Jessie Mackenzie, whose service at 
Shonnen was rather a trial for a girl who had been brought 
up among eight brothers and sisters, and loved cheerful com- 
pany. But it was an easy place, and she had got into Mrs. 
Macleod’s way, and was, on the whole, comfortable enough. 
She was trying to make herself happy in the kitchen, by the 
side of the blazing peat fire, finishing a brilliant purple Tam o’ 
Shanter for the shepherd at Garrows, who was her ‘ lad,’ but 
who was strictly forbidden to come and see her at Shonnen. 
Their only chance of meeting was on Sunday nights, as her 
mistress could not control her when she was out of the house. 

About ten minutes to eight, both women were startled by a 
loud and continuous knocking at the door. Both sprang up, 
and ran out into the dimly-lighted hall, where they looked at 
each other in amazement, which was partly apprehension. 

Indeed, Jessie Mackenzie’s teeth were chattering in her 
head, but Mrs. Macleod was neither a timid nor a nervous 
woman. 

‘Oh, ma’am, dinna open the doorl It’ll be the tinks,’ 
pleaded the girl tremblingly. ‘There was a great tribe o’ 
them cam’ up the Sma’ Glen the day, an’ we hinna a man in 
the house.’ 

‘Who’s there?’ asked Mrs. Macleod, approaching the door, 
which, however, she did not unlock. 

‘It’s me; confound you! can’t you let me in?’ said a thick, 
angry voice, which, however, she instantly recognised ; and in 
a moment the door was flung open, and the son of the house, 
covered with snow from head to foot, came in. They did not 
notice anything peculiar in his gait or manner just at first. 
Jessie, with whom he was a great favourite, ran for the carpet 
switch to sweep the snow from his coat and boots, but his 
mother was almost speechless with amazement. 

‘ Why in the world have you come home to-day, in a 
storm like this, too ? ’ she asked. ‘ IIow did you get up ? 
Where have you come from?’ 

‘ From Edinburgh, of course,’ he answered, quite rudely, 
in a manner so different from his own that his mother started. 


292 


SHEILA . 


He threw his wet coat and hat on the hall floor, and marched 
into the dining-room, his snowy feet making wet marks on the 
carpet all the way. His mother noticed then that he seemed 
to walk unsteadily, and that there was something strange about 
him altogether. An awful fear took possession of her; but 
she was equal to the occasion. She stepped forward, and drew 
to the dining-room door, just as the maid came out of the 
kitchen with the brush and a towel in her hand. 

‘ Take Mr. Fergus’s coat and hat to the kitchen and shake 
them, Jessie, and put on the kettle,’ said Ellen Macleod, 
without a tremor in her voice. ‘ You can come for the boots 
when I ring. He is very tired, I see. He has walked from 
Dunkeld.’ 

Jessie, suspecting nothing, proceeded to obey her mistress, 
who then went into the dining-room. Fergus had a chair 
planted straight before the fire, and the soles of his boots stuck 
against the red-hot bars of the grate. The water was running 
off them on to the polished steel ash-pan, and a cloud of steam 
was rising about him. His mother went straight to the hearth, 
and surveyed him a moment in silence. What she endured 
during that instant was fearful. 

‘Well?’ he said, with a rude laugh. ‘Will you know me 
again ? Get out the bottle, and let us drink to the New Year. 
It’ll soon be here.* 

She turned her head away, for her face was grey with the 
sharp pain at her heart. It was a physical pain, brought on 
by the shock. Was that her boy — that pale, haggard, dissipated- 
looking young man, with the bleared red eyes and hollow 
cheeks, his hand shaking with nervousness as he clutched the 
back of the chair? Had she driven him to this? 

‘ Get out the bottle,’ he reiterated, giving the fire a kick 
with his singed boot. ‘ It’s a sorry welcome for a fellow after 
a ten-mile walk. What are you staring at? ’ 

‘ At you. I can not believe that you are my son,’ came at 
length from between her pale lips. 

‘Fact, though, — him in the flesh. He needs a little spirit, 
though,’ he said, with a hideous leer. ‘Is there anything in 
the sideboard?’ 


THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. 


2 93 


The shock of agony over, — for it was agony to that proud 
woman to see her noble son thus debased, — her temper rose. 
Had she been wise, she would have held her peace, but in her 
state of mind at the time, perhaps it was too much to expect 
from her. 

‘ What do you mean,’ she demanded fiercely, 1 coming home 
to disgrace me in this state? The stories I have heard of 
your misdeeds are all too true, I see ; but I hoped you would 
have respect enough for me to come home sober, at least/ 

‘Draw it mild, old lady; you should be thankful I’m here 
at all. I had a job getting up that beastly road, I can tell 
you. Fetch out the bottle, I say, and give us a pull for my 
pains/ 

He rose, and made a move towards the sideboard ; but in 
an instant his mother had turned the key, and slipped it into 
her pocket. Fergus was in a half-maudlin state, too drunk, 
indeed, to be angry. 

‘ I’ll get my coat. There’s a nip or two left in it yet/ he 
said, opening the door. ‘ It’s away ! Here, Jessie Mackenzie 1 
bring that coat, and be smart about it/ he cried at the top 
of his voice. 

Before his mother could countermand the order, Jessie, in 
amazement, came hurrying out with the coat. 

Forgetful of everything but her determination to keep the 
stuff from him, Ellen Macleod took the bottle from the pocket, 
and threw it on the stone floor, where it shivered to atoms. 
Then of course Fergus swore, and, turning open the outer door, 
he darted out. 

‘ I’ll get it from Uncle Graham at Dalmore/ they heard him 
mutter, and the next moment he was lost in the darkness and 
swirl of the drift. 

A low cry, which Jessie never forgot, broke from Ellen Mac- 
leod’s lips, and she darted after him, but was almost blinded in 
a moment. 

4 Come back, ma’am ! oh, come back ! Ye’ll be buried and 
killed ! ’ cried Jessie, shaking with excitement and terror, for such 
a thing had never happened in the quiet house of Shonnen before. 

Ellen Macleod did not go far. She had not lost her senses 


294 


SHEILA. 


quite, and she saw that it was useless. She came back into 
the house, and shut the door with a hand which did not falter; 
but her face was awful to see. 

‘He has gone to his death, Jessie Mackenzie; no human 
being can seek him on a night like this. God help him and 
me ! 

Then Jessie fell to weeping, and even offered to struggle 
up to the inn and get men to look for him, but her mistress 
only shook her head, and, passing into the dining-room, again 
shut herself in. Jessie Mackenzie wandered up and down the 
hall, wringing her hands in misery, trembling still from the 
excitement. The whole thing had happened so suddenly, and 
had passed so quickly, that it was like a dream. 

Ellen Macleod was alone with her agony, and it did its work. 
Her face worked convulsively, her lips were bleeding with her 
effort to keep them still, her hands shook, nay, her whole proud 
figure trembled as if it had received a shock. Once a long 
moan broke from her lips, and then, as if unable to bear the 
tumult of her soul, she knelt down by the table, and pressed 
her brow upon the hard edge until it made a deep red mark. 
But she did not feel that it hurt her. In moments of such 
intense mental anguish the physical is as nothing. God was 
dealing sharply with this strange woman. Hard of heart, she 
needed a hard discipline. Would it avail? Would it fulfil its 
desired end ? In that position she knelt, battling with her pain, 
until the dead ashes dropped from the grate, and the lamp went 
out with a feeble flicker, leaving the room cold and dark. In 
that position the grey dawn of the New Year’s morning found 
her. 

Miss Murray Macdonald had returned to Dalmore on the 
29th of December; they could not persuade her to remain 
for the New Year’s festivities at Murrayshaugh. She left 
Miss Gordon at the manse, however, to spend New Year with 
her family, and came up alone on a snell, bitter afternoon, 
when a few stray snowflakes were scudding before the north 
wind. If Yule was green, it bade fair to be a white Hog- 
manay. 


THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. 


2 95 


Sheila had enjoyed herself thoroughly at Murrayshaugh, 
but she was unfeignedly glad to be home. Dalmore might be 
a burden on her shoulders, but she loved the place with a 
surpassing love. Though she was so young, and had a bright, 
gay, happy spirit, she was never dull, even when alone in her 
rambling old house. She had her pony and her rambles out 
of doors, her books, painting, and music in the house, therefore 
time did not hang heavy on her hands. She was neither indolent 
nor difficult to please. Cameron, the housekeeper, who adored 
her, said she was the most industrious young lady she had ever 
seen, and Cameron had spent all her life in service. 

On the last night of the year Sheila was alone in the drawing- 
room. Tory lay snugly cui led up in a corner of the couch, with 
his presuming little head on a crimson satin hand-painted 
cushion. Tory was undoubtedly a spoiled dog, but he was 
very, very old now, and his young mistress indulged him to the 
top of his bent. On the hearth-rug lay a noble staghound, who, 
it must be confessed, was a formidable rival to Tory. He was 
a gift from the Murrayshaugh boys, -and rejoiced in the name 
of Whig. In Miss Murray Macdonald’s drawing-room politics 
w r ere at a discount, for Whig and Tory both agreed. It was 
nine o’clock, and Sheila began to yawn a little over her work, 
and to wish the supper tray would come in. Suddenly Tory 
pricked up his ears, and Whig, lifting up his grand head, sent 
forth one deep, warning bark. Sheila rose in some surprise. 
They kept early hours at Dalmore ; she fancied the doors 
would be all locked, and some of the servants already in bed. 
There was not a sound to be heard ; even the wind seemed 
to breathe quietly round Dalmore, and drifting snow makes 
no noise. But presently there was a quick knock at the 
drawing-room door, and Cameron, looking somewhat scared, 
came in. 

1 What is it, Cameron ? ’ asked Sheila, fearing something, she 
scarcely knew what. 

‘ Miss Sheila, a strange thing has happened. Mr. Fergus 
Macleod has come, and ’ — 

4 What does he want? Why did you not bring him up at 
once? Tell him to come up now, Cameron,’ said Sheila 


296 


SHEILA . . 


quickly ; and the sweet colour flushed all her fair face with 
a crimson glow. 

‘ Oh, I couldn’t, Miss Sheila. He’s not right, poor young 
gentleman 1 ’ 

‘What is the matter with him? I’ll go and see him. Is 
lie in the library ? ’ said Sheila, with an apprehensive look. 
She could not understand the hesitation in the housekeeper’s 
manner, and it irritated her. 

‘ O no, you mustn’t go down,* said Cameron, laying a 
detaining hand on the arm of her young mistress. ‘ He has 
had too much drink, I think, Miss Sheila, and he has come 
seeking his Uncle Graham, he says. I tried to persuade him 
to go quietly away, but he w r on’t ; he is in the library, sitting 
quietly, thinking I have gone to fetch the Laird.’ 

Sheila grew white to the lips, and began to tremble. The 
housekeeper saw her put a check on herself, and clench her 
hands to keep them still. She turned her large, earnest eyes 
full on the housekeeper’s face, with a half-resolute, half-pathetic 
look. 

‘ I shall go down. Come with me, Cameron, but remain out 
of the room. Perhaps I may be able to make him go quietly 
away.* 

She spoke with evident effort. She had received a shock 
which made her feel weak and ill. She could not believe it of 
Fergus. She wished to see for herself. Her tone was imper- 
ative; Cameron had never heard it more so, and she turned 
silently and opened the door. 

‘Who let him in?’ Sheila turned on the stairs to ask. 

‘I did, Miss Sheila. The girls are in bed, and Hamish 
dozing over the fire.’ 

‘Nobody saw him but you, then?* 

‘Nobody, Miss Sheila.’ 

‘I am glad of that,’ said Sheila simply ; and the housekeeper 
wiped a tear from her own eyes. 

Sheila did not hesitate at the library door, but turned the 
handle, and went in with swift, unfaltering steps. The library 
w T as used as a dining-room when the ladies were alone, and the 
fire burned in it all day in winter. Cameron had turned up 


THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAH 


2 97 


the lamp, and there was Fergus, sitting on the corner of the 
sofa, with his head laid down on the pillow, sound asleep. Tired 
with his fight through the snowdrift, the warm air of the room 
had overpowered him, and he had succumbed the moment he 
sat down. Sheila stood a moment by the table, and looked at 
him. She was very straight and erect, and her face was per- 
fectly white. The look upon it might have recalled his wander- 
ing senses, but he seemed perfectly unconscious. Sheila turned 
about at length, and, going to the door, 1 •beckoned to the house- 
keeper, who was in the hall. Then both left the room, and 
Sheila, undoing the bolts of the hall door, tried to look out, but 
the soft snow swept in upon her, and a sudden wind blast nearly 
blew out the hall lamp. 

‘ Shut the door, Cameron, and put up the bolts,’ said Sheila 
decidedly. ‘ No one can leave Dalmore to-night. What are 
we to do ? ’ 

‘ It would be a cruel shame to set him out alone. He would 
never rvach Shonnen alive, Miss Sheila, but would only creep 
into a dyke-side, and fall into a sleep he would never waken 
from/ said Cameron. ‘ And if we set Hamisli with him, the 
whole parish will have the story before dinner - time to- 
morrow.’ 

4 Then he must stay here/ said Sheila. Her eyes were 
glittering. In spite of her perfect calmness, she was labouring 
under the most intense excitement. 

1 I’ll tell ye what, Miss Sheila, I’ll build up the fire in the 
library, and let him abe. He’ll tak’ no harm, poor lad ! They 
say Providence takes care o’ bairns an’ foolish lads like him/ 
said Cameron. ‘ I’ll lie down myself in the bed in the Laird’s 
room, an’ I’ll hear him if he moves. And I promise ye I’ll get 
him away from Dalmore in the mornin’ afore there’s a move- 
ment in the house/ 

‘ I’ll see him before he goes. I shall not be asleep/ said 
Sheila. 4 Be kind to him, Cameron, for my sake.’ 

‘Bless ye, my bairn! an’ him an’ a’/ said Cameron fervently. 
‘ He’ll be a braw man for a’ this yet. It’ll maybe be the makin’ 
o’ him to hae sleepit this nicht in Dalmore.’ 

Sheila smiled a wan smile, and crept away upstairs. She 


298 


SHEILA. 


passed by the drawing-room, where the dogs were whining at 
the door, and went along the corridor to her mother’s room. 
Two hearts were breaking that night for Fergus Macleod’s 
misdoing. 

Sheila threw herself across the bed, and her grief found vent 
in one low, passionate cry, — • 

* Oh, mamma I mamma 1 9 




CHAPTER XXXIY. 

NEW TEAK’S MORN. 

For mercy has a human heart, 

Pity a human face ; 

And love the human form divine. 

And peace the human dress, 

William Black. 

ERGUS MACLEOD slept soundly until four o’clock 
in the morning. Cameron, sitting with a plaid 
round her in the Laird’s arm-chair in the adjoining 
room, heard him move, and, the bedroom door 
being ajar, she could see him quite well. He sat up, rubbed 
his eyes, and stared round him. He did not seem to realize 
at first where he was. There was a glowing fire in the wide 
grate, and the lamp was burning on the table. The room 
had never looked more home-like and familiar, but what room 
was it? But for the weight of her sorrow and anxiety both 
for him and her mistress, the housekeeper could have laughed 
at the look of utter helplessness and perplexity in his face. He 
got up at length, shook himself, and took a turn round the 
room. Then he stopped straight opposite the fireplace, and 
Cameron saw him fix his eyes on the portrait of his uncle’s 
wife, which hung above the mantel-shelf. These sweet, serious 
eyes seemed to be bent upon him in mild, sorrowing surprise. 
He started, and drew his hand quickly across his brow. 



3°o 


SHEILA. 


‘ Aunt Edith!’ he said. ‘ Heavens ! I am at Dalmore! What 
does it mean ? ’ 

The housekeeper rose, and made a movement with her chair 
to attract his attention before she entered his presence. 

‘ Mr. Fergus,’ she said gently, ‘ sit down, and Til explain to 
you how you came here.’ 

He looked at her in dumb amazement, and then sat down as 
obediently as a child. He was quite sober now, but he did not 
realize his situation. He felt like a man awaking from some 
bewildering dream. 

‘ Don’t you remember coming up last night, Mr. Fergus, and 
asking for your Uncle Graham ? * 

He shook his head. 

‘ I don’t remember anything but getting out at Dunkeld 
station, and ploughing up the road through the snow,’ he said, try- 
ing to make memory perform her function. ‘ When did I come?’ 

‘ At nine o’clock.’ 

‘ Were you anywhere else on the road?’ 

‘Yes, I was at home,’ he said, starting up. ‘I remember my 
mother, and she was frightfully angry. Cameron, I was drunk! 
What state was I in when I came here?’ 

‘You had had too much. I saw it at once, Mr. Fergus,’ said 
Cameron, feeling an intense pity for him. The awakening was 
a fearful experience for Fergus Macleod. The veins on his 
broad white brow were swollen like knotted cords ; the 
perspiration stood in great beads on his face. 

‘Tell me all about it, Cameron. What did I do? Was I 
wild ? Did I make any disturbance ? * 

‘ O no, none. Nobody saw you but Miss Sheila and me.’ 

She told him purposely. She wished him to suffer; to have 
his wholesome lesson without alleviation. It might, as she had 
said, be his salvation. 

‘ Did she see me ? O my God ! ’ 

There was no irreverence in the exclamation. It was wrung 
from him by keen mental anguish. Before Cameron could 
reply, the door into the hall was softly opened, and Sheila 
herself stole in. She had never undressed. She still wore her 
warm grey tweed gown, and a white linen collar, fastened by 


NEW YEAR'S MORN 


3 QI 


a big purple cairngorm at her throat. The linen was not 
whiter than her face. She had kept her vigil all the night 
long in her mother’s room. It was directly above the library, 
and, in the absolute stillness of the house, she had easily heard 
the sound of their voices below. It could not reach the other 
inmates of the house, who were sleeping in the remote wing. 
When her young mistress entered, Cameron slipped out. Her 
eyes were wet, her heart sore, for these two young creatures, 
who loved each other, and who met in such strange and sad 
circumstances. 

‘I thought I should like to see you, Fergus,’ Sheila said, 
‘ before you went away.’ 

Her voice was of surpassing sweetness, her accent gentle and 
kind, but with a ring of mournfulness in it. Perhaps her 
girlish idol was shattered ; and that, to a sensitive heart, is 
something of a trial. He swung round, gave her one startled 
look, and then, flinging himself on the couch again, gave way 
to tears. They were tears of bitterest penitence and shame. 
The noise of his sobbing disturbed Sheila. She walked over to 
the fireplace, and, leaning her arm on the oak shelf above it, 
stood very still. Her tears were all shed. It was as if the 
face of the mother in the picture on the wall was moved with 
compassion for them both. The mild, beautiful eyes seemed 
almost to speak. No doubt her spirit was there. Sheila felt 
comforted and strengthened to go through this ordeal. She 
had something to say to Fergus. She felt that God would 
guide her tongue. 

At last he grew calmer, and stood up, and looked at the 
slight figure of the young girl by the hearth. 

‘I shall go away, Sheila, without asking you to forgive m^. 
I shall never forgive myself. I have disgraced my own name, 
my uncle’s memory, and your home. Good-bye.’ 

He gave his head a slight inclination, and turned to go ; but 
Sheila’s look held him back. 

‘Not yet. I have something to say to you, Fergus. Why 
should I not forgive you? I will not say you have not done 
wrong, but I cannot let you go feeling as you do at this moment. 
I could not do it to a stranger, least of all to you' 


3 02 


SHEILA . 


‘You are too kind, but your kindness cannot lighten my 
burden of shame, Sheila. As I live, I know not what tempted 
me to degrade myself before you ,’ he said, with passion. 

‘ Better to me than to strangers, Fergus,’ she said sadly ; but 
the kind look never left her face. ‘ I will tell you I was not 
so much surprised, because I had heard you had gone off the 
straight path a little. But you will find it again, and walk 
stedfastly in it, for your own sake and for mine.’ 

‘For yours? Then you do not altogether hate and despise 
me, Sheila ? * cried the unhappy young man, with a gleam of 
hope in his melancholy eyes. 

‘ Despise and hate you, after all that is past, Fergus ? ’ said 
Sheila reproachfully. ‘ I cannot, cannot do that ; for I feel — 
indeed I do, and it is well-nigh breaking my heart — that had 
I not robbed you of your inheritance, you would have been 
a different man. You would have been reigning here, the 
honoured and beloved Laird of Dalmore.’ 

These words caused Fergus Macleod the deepest surprise and 
concern. He saw how deeply Sheila felt what she was saying, 
and again he cursed his own folly. He saw that she took 
blame to herself for his sin. He could have knelt at her feet 
and besought her forgiveness anew, but the look on her face 
deterred him. 

‘Hush, hush ! * he said hurriedly. ‘Do you think I have 
ever grudged Dalmore to you? When I hear how they speak 
your name, and see what you have done for the 'place and 
the people, I am thankful that it is in your hands and not in 
mine. When I leave here, Sheila, you shall never see me 
again, but in all your efforts for the people’s good, in all your 
generous, noble kindness, be sure that no blessing or congratu- 
lation can be truer than that of Fergus Macleod, unworthy 
though he be.* 

There was a flush now upon Sheila’s cheek, and her eye 
filled with apprehension. 

‘Where are you going, Fergus?’ she asked, somewhat 
falteringly. 

‘After last night, I hardly think my mother will care to 
keep me at home,’ replied he, with a slight shudder. ‘ She 


NEW YEAR'S MORN. 


3°3 

will be glad to send me where all the scapegoats are sent, — 
across the sea.’ 

‘ You seem proud of your character/ said Sheila, with 
slightly curling lip, for her righteous anger rose at his tone, 
which did no honour to his manhood. But suddenly her mood 
changed ; her face became beautiful with the tenderness of her 
heart ; her eye shone with a high resolve. The time had come 
for her to exercise the woman's privilege, not only to comfort, 
but to spur on to highest endeavour; and so her childhood 
went away for ever from Sheila Macdonald. 

4 Fergus, I will not say you must not go, — nay, I think now 
it would be better to break all the old ties, and begin anew. 
Promise me that, for the sake of the old time, you will begin 
anew, and try to live your life nobly. I have expected so 
much. I do expect it still from you. There will never be to 
me a second Fergus Macleod. Don’t disappoint me. There 
is no grand achievement or noble height which I have not 
believed you could reach. Only on condition that you will 
fulfil my dreams will I say good-bye, and bid you God speed !’ 

Surely the words were Heaven-given. They infused new 
life into Fergus Macleod ; they showed him the possibilities of 
life. They even assured him that one fall need not mean 
constant grovelling, that hope had a benison for him yet. In 
a word, they made him a man. He drew himself up ; a light 
came into his blue eye something like the flashing light of old ; 
he gave his mouth a determined curve. Sheila saw that he 
was saved. 

‘So help me God, I will!* he said, and these words were a 
vow. ‘ I promise to you, before God, that from this day I am 
a different man. In addition to all you have done for others, 
Sheila, you have saved me. Yes, as I live, I believe had you 
treated me differently, my shame and horror would have sent 
me straight to destruction.’ 

‘ No, no ; you are not wholly bad/ said Sheila, with a slight 
smile, which was more pathetic than her former deep gravity. 
‘ Go, then, Fergus ; some day, not far distant, I trust, I shall 
be proud of my friend.’ 

She extended her hand, but he shook his head. 

26 


3°4 


SHEILA . 


4 1 am not worthy to touch it/ he said. 1 If that same day 
ever comes, Sheila, I hope I shall be able to stand in your 
presence without shame, and tell you what I owe to you.’ 

She took a step forward then, and, seeing he was going, 
followed him out to the door. When he set it open, they saw 
that the storm had ceased. The lowering clouds were drifting 
across the sky, but right above where they stood there was a 
clear patch of blue, in which many stars were shining. 

4 Stars of promise/ Sheila said ; and then they stood for a 
moment in a silence which touched them both with solemnity. 
The past half-hour had been one of keen tension fbr both, and 
now the shadow, perhaps, of an eternal parting was upon 
them. 

It was not wonderful that Fergus had nothing to say now, 
still less that Sheila’s lips should be silent. There had been 
too much between them, to part with words of commonplace 
farewell. 

4 It will be dawn soon. I must go/ said Fergus ; and their 
eyes met. In that look the heart of each was revealed to the 
other. Sheila turned about, and, gliding into the house, closed 
the door. Then Fergus Macleod knelt down on the snow- 
covered doorstep, and prayed. When he rose from his knees, 
he walked away from the house with a step which had resolu- 
tion and hope in it. In his despair and disappointment he had 
tried the prodigal’s husks, and had now come back, clothed and 
in his right mind, to the right way, which, with the help of God, 
he would n ver leave again. 

• *«•••• 

That night had passed strangely at Shonnen Lodge. Mrs. 
Macleod was shut in the dining-room, Jessie Mackenzie keeping 
a vigil by the kitchen fire. She had slipped out before mid- 
night, and unlocked the front door, so that if the wanderer 
should return he would gain admittance at once. She was too 
frightened to sleep. At five o’clock she began to move about 
and attend to her work. More than once she went to the 
dining-room door, but always came trembling back from it 
again. I do not know what she feared. The stillness was like 
death. She felt that she could not go into that room until it 


NEW YEAR'S MORN. 


305 


was daylight. Possibly her movements aroused her mistress, 
for, after a time, to her intense relief, Jessie heard a step in the 
dining-room. Then the door was opened, and Mrs. Macleod 
came through to the kitchen. She was like a spectre. Jessie 
almost screamed at sight of her. Her hair was quite white, and 
her face pale as that of the dead. 

‘ There has been no word, I suppose, Jessie?’ she said, in a 
cold, passionless voice, 

‘No, ma’am. Oh, how cold you look! Come and warm 
yourself at the fire ; I kept it in all night.’ 

‘You should have been in your bed,’ said Mrs. Macleod 
quietly; but she obeyed the kind request, and stood by the fire 
a moment, warming her chilled, blue fingers at the cheerful 
glow. ‘ It is after five, I see. You can light the dining-room 
fire ; I think it has gone out. I shall go upstairs and lie down 
for a little.’ 

Her voice sounded low and somewhat broken in its tone. 
The hopelessness of it struck Jessie, though she was not a close 
observer. Her kind heart was instantly touched. 

‘ Sit down here, ma’am, or I make ye a cup of tea, and when 
ye are drinking it I’ll make a lire in your room and put the 
bottle in the bed. See, the kettle’s boilin’.* 

4 You are a good girl, Jessie. Very well, I will sit down. 
Yes, I am very cold,* said Ellen Macleod, shivering from head 
to foot. Jessie was seriously alarmed. She wished it was 
daylight. The things that were happening at Shonnen were 
too much for her to cope with alone. But whom could she send 
for? Her mistress had no friends. Jessie w T as very active. 
In an incredibly short time she had a nice cup of tea for her 
mistress, who took it gratefully, and sipped it with evident 
relish. But her face had still that worn look ; her eyes were 
dry and glittering. She was thinking of her boy, lying among 
the snow-drifts — dead, and she had driven him to it! Poor, 
proud, breaking heart 1 its punishment was very great. Jessie 
Mackenzie was up in the bedroom, busying herself for the 
comfort of her distressed mistress, when the outer door was 
opened, and some one came in, — some one with a firm, steady, 
manly step. The foot sought the dining-room, and then came 


306 


SHEILA. 


striding into the kitchen. Ellen Macleod let her tea-cup fall 
down on the stone floor, but sat perfectly still. Then the 
figure approached her, and knelt down by her side on the floor, 
and an arm was thrown about her where she sat, and a voice 
filled her ears — her own boy’s familiar voice, though broken 
and trembling in its tone. 

‘Mother!* it said, 4 mother, forgive me! I believe God 
has/ 

But there was no answer. Then, looking up, he saw the 
white hair, the haggard, pain-lined face, Jhe agony-dimmed 
eyes, and knew what he had done. 

4 Mother, mother ! speak to me ! I am your son. Speak to 
me, and forgive me ! * he pleaded. Then he looked at her and 
wondered, for her lips parted, and the smile on her face was to 
him a glimpse of heaven. She laid her hand on his brow ; she 
passed it round his neck, and bent her own cheek until it 
rested on his bright hair. And so mother and son in name 
became mother and son in heart. God had spoken, and not in 
vain, to Ellen Macleod. 




CHAPTER XXXV. 

SIGNS OF EVIL. 

Canst thou not minister to a inind diseased, 

Raze out the written troubles of the brain? 

Hamlet, 

T twelve o’clock on the last night of the year, old 
Janet Menzies died in her cottage at Achnafauld. 
The end was not unexpected, for she had been 
rapidly sinking since the winter. So Malcolm and 
Katie were left quite alone. There had not been such perfect 
confidence and affection between them for some time; not, 
indeed, since the night Angus M‘Bean had walked home with 
Katie from Shian. Malcolm’s jealous suspicion, being once 
roused, slept no more. He watched Katie perpetually until 
the factor’s son went back to college ; but he took no thought 
that while he was busy on the croft, Katie might be reading, ay, 
and writing love-letters too. 

The Hogmanay storm had rendered the roads impassable, 
and it became a question how old Janet’s burying was to take 
place at Shian. . Both the roads beyond Achnafauld were level 
with the dykes, and the snow was so soft and ‘ pouthery ’ that 
it was impossible to walk on it without sinking. It was 
decided at length to carry her over the frozen loch, and then 
cut a way through the drift as well as possible up to the grave- 

507 



3°8 


SHEILA. 


yard. Most of the Fauld folks buried at Shian, though the 
churchyard at Amulree was nearer, and had a better road to it. 
Old Janet had insisted at the last that, whatever the state of 
the roads, they should bury her beside her father and mother 
in Shian. 

‘ If ye tak’ me to Amulree,’ she had said, shaking her skinny 
forefinger at the minister and at Malcolm as they stood by her 
bed the morning before she died, ‘I’ll no’ lie. My licht ’ll 
burn in the kirkyaird or ye lift me.’ It was firmly believed in 
the Glen that when the deceased had died with an uneasy 
conscience, or if the relatives had done anything to thwart the 
last wishes, the corpse candles burned in the grave, a sure 
sign that the spirit was haunting the place in a fever of unrest. 
So, at all hazards, Janet must be taken to Shian on the day of 
the funeral. Sheila had her pony saddled, and managed to 
ride through the drift to the Fauld. Since she had entered 
into possession at Dalmore, she had taken a part in all the joys 
and sorrows of her people, and she felt that Katie would be 
very desolate after they all left the house. She arrived in time 
for the service, and she was greatly impressed thereby. It was 
short and simple, yet very solemn. Mr. Macfarlane’s earnest 
words sank into her heart. When it was all over, six stalwart 
men formed a sort of litter with their arms, and then bore the 
coffin out by the door. Blind Rob was ready with his pipes, 
for he played a pibroch for all his neighbours at the buryings, 
and so the melancholy train went down the path, which had 
been swept clear to the loch. Sheila went out to the back of 
the house, and watched the strange procession winding its way 
across the whitened landscape, all the trappings of woe seeming 
darker and more striking in contrast with the spotless purity of 
the snow. The sky was leaden-hued, and seemed to hang low 
over the castle, the air was soundless and heavy, and Rob’s 
pibroch seemed to fill the Glen with its mournful wailing. 
Altogether, it was an impressive sight, and one which Sheila 
would not readily forget. When she went back to the house, 
Katie was crying by the fire. As she looked at her, Sheila 
could not but think how bonnie and sweet she looked in her 
black frock, which seemed to set off the fair whiteness of her face. 


SIGNS OF EVIL. 


3 ° 9 


‘ Don’t cry, Katie. Aunt Janet was an old, old woman, you 
know, and she was quite ready to go. Let us think rather 
that she is free from all her pain now,’ said Sheila softly ; but, 
before Katie had time to answer, the door was softly opened, 
and young Angus M‘Bean looked in. 

‘ 1 beg your pardon, Miss Murray Macdonald,’ he said 
shamefacedly. ‘ I thought Katie would be alone, or I would 
not have come.* 

‘Come in, come in. I am just going,’ said Sheila, with a 
slight smile. ‘Katie, are you not going to speak to Mr. 
M‘Bean ? * 

Katie’s face was as red as the peat glow, but Sheila saw that 
her eyes brightened. Involuntarily she looked at Angus 
M‘Bean. She wondered just then what his evident love for 
Katie might mean. She could almost have asked him there 
and then. Had she been ten years older she certainly would 
have asked him. But she was fain to think the best of him. 
And it was a good sign that he did not seem put out at finding 
her in the cottage. So she bade them both good-bye, and rode 
away, leaving Angus to comfort Katie in his own way. 

‘ Ye’ll need to go away before Malcolm comes home,’ said 
Katie, after they had talked of a greet many things very 
interesting to themselves, but not of special import to us. 

‘No, Katie; I’m going to wait till Malcolm comes back. 
Miss Murray Macdonald saw' me here, and all the neighbours 
know I am in, and I’m not going to run away from him,* said 
Angus firmly. 

‘ He’ll be awfu* angry,’ said Katie nervously. ‘ He said 
once that if he saw me speaking to you again, he’d kill us 
baith.* 

‘ Let him try it,’ said Angus lightly. ‘ Katie, I cau’t bear 
to go back to Edinburgh and leave you with Malcolm. He’ll 
not be good to you.* 

‘ Oh, he’s weel enough when he disna ken nor hear onything 
aboot you,’ said Katie, with a sigh ; for, indeed, her heart did fail 
her a little at the prospect of her life alone in the house with 
Malcolm. He w f as so dreadfully changed. 

‘ How dour he is, Katie ! He keeps up a grudge for ever,* 


3io 


SHEILA. 


said Angus presently. 4 I told him once that I wished I had 
never tormented or told tales on him when we were all at Peter 
Crerar’s school, and asked him to let bygones be bygones, but 
he just glowered at me, and said he would ca’ me into the loch. 
I told him he was too ready speaking about the loch, and lifting 
stones and graips to folk, and, faith, he got into such a terrible 
passion that I was glad to get out of the road. We’ll need to 
marry without his consent, Katie.* 

4 Ay, an’ gang faur, faur awa’, if we ever dae,’ said Katie, in 
a low voice, for a constant dread was upon her. Although 
Angus M‘Bean had really tried to make manly amends for his 
past persecution, Malcolm would receive none of his advances. 
He seemed to hate the whole household at Auchloy with a 
mortal hatred. He even seemed to be soured, too, against his 
very neighbours in the Fauld. The only person who could call 
forth the kindly impulses of his heart was Sheila. It is not too 
much to say that he worshipped her with a dumb, faithful 
worship, something like the blind, unquestioning attachment of a 
dog to its master. It was grey dark when the mourners 
returned from the funeral, and when Malcolm came striding 
into the house, — a strange-looking figure in his ill-fitting black 
clothes, — he could not at first distinguish who it was sitting 
opposite Katie at the fireside. 

4 It’s me, Malcolm,* said Angus presently; for he wished to 
assert a kind of right to Katie before her brother, in order that 
the future might be easier for her. 

4 Oh, it’s you, is’t?’ said Malcolm quietly enough; but Katie, 
who could read every expression on his face, saw his nostrils 
dilate and the veins rise on his brow, as they had done of late 
on the smallest provocation, thus indicating that his nervous 
system was too easily excited. ‘Well, if it’s you, there’s the 
door.* 

‘Tuts, man ! don’t be so snuffy. Let me sit and crack a little ; 
I’m going away the day after to-morrow,’ said Angus, in the 
same hearty tone. 

Malcolm set the door wide to the wall, and then, with one 
swing of his powerful right arm, he swooped down upon the 
factor’s son, and whisked him out of the place, locking the door 


SIGNS OF EVIL. 


3 11 


behind him. Then he turned to Katie with blazing eyes, and 
said sullenly, 4 If ye say a word, or if I see or hear o ’ ye 
speakin’ to that deevil again, I’ll turn ye oot efter him. The 
hoose’s mine noo, mind that 1 * 

Katie began to cry again, and crouched by the ingle-neuk in 
perfect misery. 

Finding himself thus summarily ejected from the house, 
Angus M 4 Bean stood for a moment undecided what to do. It 
was fearful to leave Katie there with that madman, for such 
Angus held him to be, and yet he was very powerless. He 
must go away in the meantime, but of one thing he was certain, 
that he could not and would not leave Katie at Malcolm’s 
mercy very long. He walked slowly along a beaten footpath 
to Auchloy, so slowly that it was pitch dark when he got home. 
Ilis sisters were spending the New Year at Crieff, and his 
father and mother were having tin early tea in the dining-room 
when he went in. The factor’s brow was as black as thunder; 
his son saw at once that there was something seriously disturb- 
ing him. 

4 Got your courting done, eh ? ’ he asked, with a bitter sneer, 
as Angus drew in his chair to the table, and asked his mother 
for a cup of tea. 

4 Maybe, and maybe no’ ; that’s my business/ he answered 
sharply enough, for his father’s tone irritated him. He was 
vexed and perplexed, at any rate, and did not feel equal to any 
more censure of his actions. Malcolm’s summary treatment 
rankled in his mind. 

4 It’s a queer time to court just after the coffin’s carried out 
of the house/ continued the factor sourly. 4 1 wonder you 
didna think shame, if she didna. Ye might have let the auld 
wife be cauld in her grave before ye began.’ 

4 Any word from the lassies to-day, mother?’ asked Angus, 
turning his back not very dutifully on his father ; whereupon 
that worthy’s anger got the better of his judgment. 

4 Had I kent ye were in the hoose wi’ the lassie when I gaed 
by, I wad hae come in, and laid my whip aboot yer lugs, my 
man 1 ’ he said loudly. 4 And Miss Murray Macdonald saw ye 
too, that was more.’ 


27 


SHEILA . 


3 13 

4 She was in when I was in,* said Angus dryly. ‘ So ye 
haven’t got the news quite correctly.’ 

‘ Weel, whether or no’, I want to know what ye mean. Are 
ye courtin’ Miss Murray Macdonald or Katie Menzies? for it 
canna be them baith.’ 

‘Then it’s not Miss Murray Macdonald,’ said Angus 
doggedly, determined to make a clean breast of it, his mind 
being made up to marry Katie. 

‘Then is’t Katie Menzies? * 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ An* are ye going to marry her ? * 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘After a’ I’ve done for ye? D’ye hear that, Mrs. M‘Bean ? 
Your braw son’s gaun to marry Katie Menzies — crazy Malcolm’s 
sister.* 

Mrs. M‘Bean never spoke, but poured out another cup of tea 
to steady her nerves. But she cast a look of sympathy upon 
her son, which let him see plainly what her opinion was. The 
factor was too angry to notice it. He was frightfully dis- 
appointed. He had built up a fine castle for his one son, and 
here it had fallen about his ears. 

‘ Angus M‘Bean, are ye in your right mind ? That’s what I 
want to ken. It seems to me that the mad Menzies hae made 
ye aboot as daft as they are.’ 

Angus smiled. He did not stand in awe of his father, and, I 
fear, had not that respect for him with which a wise father 
inspires his son. 

‘ Maybe,’ he said carelessly. ‘ Mad or not mad, I’ll marry 
nobody but Katie Menzies, do or say what you like.’ 

The factor clenched his hand, and brought it down on the 
table with a thump, which set the tea-cups rattling against each 
other, and knocked over the milk jug into the jelly glass. 

‘ If ye marry her, I’ll disinherit ye ! D’ye hear me ? I’ll 
disinherit ye, Angus M‘Bean!’ 

‘ I can’t help that. I can work for myself.’ 

‘ Hear him ! after all I’ve spent on him ! ’ cried the factor, 
as if adjuring a listening audience. ‘Ye owe me bunders o’ 
pounds ! Hunders, I say, but hunders ’ll no’ payV 


SIGNS OF EVIL. 


3i3 


‘ Well, if you look at it in that way, father, you can make 
out a bill, and I’ll look upon it as a debt,’ said young Angus 
quietly. ‘ But you’ve only educated me, and I thought it was 
a father’s duty to give his bairns the best education in his 
power.’ 

‘ Had I but kent that ye wad make sic a ruin o’ yer life, 
I wad hae shippit ye awa* to Canada wi’ the cottars 1 ’ cried the 
factor. ‘Laddie, ye had a splendid future before ye, an estate 
and a grand wife lyin’ to your very haund, an ye hae thrown 
it away; but a judgment will come upon ye for it, I hope and 
pray.’ 

‘ You speak very surely, father. I am as certain as I am 
sitting here, that though I were to court Miss Murray Macdonald 
for a thousand years she would never marry me. She thinks 
herself far better than me ; besides, I would rather work for 
my wife than take everything from her.* 

4 Hear till him I He’s speakin’ oot o’ a book noo,’ said the 
factor sarcastically. 4 Mrs. M‘Bean, can you no’ speak a word 
to put this rascal by his folly ? ’ 

‘I’m glad he’s that sensible, Angus,* was his spouse’s 
unexpected reply. ‘And as for Katie Menzies, she’s a bonnie, 
sweet lassie; ye micht hae dune waur, far waur, Angus, my 
man. And ye hae baith my blessin’, whatever yer faither may 
say. There’s faur owre muckle try in’ to be big an’ grand noo. 
Puir folk’s faur the happiest. For my pairt, I hae never kent 
muckle ease o’ mind sin’ I cam’ doon the Glen to Auchloy. So 
take ye heart, my man, an’ work wi’ yer haunds for Katie, an’ 
the Lord wull bless ye baith.’ 

It was a long speech for Mrs. M‘Bean, and had her feelings 
not been wrought up to a certain pitch, she would not have 
dared to utter it before her lord and master, who ruled her in 
all things. But it was a matter of conscience this, and Mrs. 
M‘Bean was a good as well as a kind woman. She was 
profoundly thankful that her son had at length taken so firm 
a stand for the right. Many a salt tear she had shed for him 
in his more degenerate days, before Katie’s sweet influence had 
wrought in him for good. 

Mr. M‘Bean cast upon his wife a look of withering scorn, 


3U 


SHEILA . 


and, with his head in the air, marched out of the room, as if he 
felt it impossible to breathe in the same atmosphere with them. 

He never alluded to it again, but there was a marked 
coldness in his demeanour towards his son during the brief 
time he remained at home. Angus went away without a word ; 
his classes were taken out at college for the spring session, so 
he might as well take advantage of them. But he determined 
that, in addition to working very hard at his books in Edinburgh, 
he would keep a look-out for a situation as under-factor, and 
that if he were successful in obtaining his desire, he would 
marry Katie without delay, and make a home for himself and 
for her. 




CHAPTER XXXYL 


MY WIFE ! 



My wife’s a winsome wee thing, 

This sweet wee wife o’ mine. 

jERGUS MACLEOD went back to college the day 
after Angus M‘Bean left Auchloy. His class fees 
were paid up till Easter, and he could not idle the 
spring months at home. It was finally settled that 
he and his mother should sail for Quebec by the first steamer 
which made the voyage from Glasgow after the ice broke up 
on the St. Lawrence. Wherever the boy was would be home 
and paradise now for Ellen Macleod. He warned her of 
the hardships, but she said she would make them easier for 
him. 

Seeing that her heart was set upon it, Fergus said no 
more. The new mother he had found was so dear to him, 
that he could not bear the thought of parting with her. It 
had been a strange experience for them both. It almost 
seemed as if they had made a new and delightful acquaintance 
with each other. His mother was now Fergus Macleod’s 
sympathizer and confidante; to her he poured out all the 
miserable experiences of those winter months in Edinburgh, 
told all the idle dissipating of time and opportunity, the 
desecration of talent and privilege. And she did not blame. 



316 


SHEILA. 


but only bade him go on in a new and better way, and take 
courage. He had told her, the night before he left Shonnen, 
what had transpired at Dalmore, and when he spoke of Sheila, 
his mother knew by his hushed voice and full, earnest eye 
what she was to him. His dearest; and she, his mother, must 
henceforth be content to be second. But even that, in her new- 
found peace and happiness, seemed a little thing. She knew 
in her heart that Sheila was worthy the highest homage that 
Fergus or any man could give her. She even admitted to 
herself that Fergus was not worthy of her yet. The day might 
come when the desire of her heart, which she had long allowed 
to embitter her life, would be an accomplished fact, and Fergus 
would be Laird of Dalmore, and if not, he would fill some 
other sphere as worthily. 

I hope this change for the better in Ellen Macleod does 
not savour of the miraculous or the impossible. In this 
history heretofore, the hardest, most unwomanly side of her 
character has constantly obtruded itself; but that, even in 
these hard days, she had had her moments of remorse, I 
cannot doubt. Many an unseeen, unknown struggle must 
have taken place silently in her breast. But none of these 
had been strong enough to break down the barriers of her 
prejudice and pride. She needed a sharper discipline. 

The fear of death had been upon her before her heart would 
melt; but, once broken down, she allowed the softer im- 
pulses of her nature to have fullest bent. She asked her 
son’s forgiveness for her long harshness towards him very 
humbly, even with tears, and, having obtained it, alluded no 
more to that dark past. She sought rather to atone for 
it by making the present sweet, and the future bright. 
It was characteristic of the woman, and a hopeful sign, I 
think, that her repentance was real. There is no good, but 
rather harm, to be got in dwelling upon past evil of any 
kind. Let it be repented of sincerely and atoned for, if 
possible, then buried for ever. We are not called to abase 
ourselves perpetually to the memory of sins committed. Let 
our solemn striving after good be the earnest that we no longer 
desire evil. 


MY WIFE! 


317 


After her boy went back to Edinburgh, Ellen Macleod set 
herself to make great preparations, in the way of sewing and 
knitting, for the future. Their intention was not known. They 
would keep their own counsel for a while. The weekly letter 
was now no hardship, but a joy, for Fergus to write. Sometimes 
two came instead of one, and his mother paid him back with 
interest. In these letters they spoke yet more freely and 
unrestrainedly to each other, and so the separation was shorn 
of half its bitterness. 

Having learned that Fergus was in Edinburgh, Alastair 
sought him out in his old lodgings one evening in February. 
He found him hard at work among his books, trying to make 
up his lost ground. 

4 Hulloa, old man ! turned a perfect model of industry, eh ? ’ 
he cried, slapping his shoulder in his old hearty way. 4 I 
wondered what had become of you. Never thought you had 
taken to grinding.* 

‘Time, don’t you think?’ asked Fergus, looking with a 
smile into Alastair’s frank face. It was pleasant to see one’s 
old chum, he thought, after their long estrangement. 

‘ Are you going to stay a while, Alastair ? Do, and I’ll 
put up my books. I feel as if I had a thousand things to say 
to you.* 

‘ Very likely, after the way you’ve persistently kept out of 
my road lately,’ said Alastair, with a grin. 

‘ Do you know, it’s only four weeks to-day till the classes are 
up, and I haven’t done a stroke of work ? * 

‘It’s hardly worth tackling to now. You look as if you 
needed a holiday already. Do you stew here for ever ? 

‘ A good deal. Look at the time I lost in winter. It makes 
me savage to think of it. Alastair, why didn’t you tell me 
what a fool I was? ’ 

‘ Because you might, and probably would, have requested me 
to mind my own business,’ said Alastair serenely. 4 And I 
knew you wouldn’t go too far. It’s not in you.’ 

4 I went far enough,’ said Fergus, with clouding brow. ‘ Sit 
down, man. I suppose I may tell you now I’m off to Canada 
in April.’ 


SHEILA. 


3 l8 

1 Really ? 1 

‘ Fact. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it ? to go out and 
see the place they’ve called after me. Fergus Creek is our 
destination.’ 

* Our destination ! Who is going with you ? ’ 

‘ My mother.’ 

Alastair whistled, — not quite so much with surprise at the 
announcement, as at the tone in which Fergus spoke these 
two words. 4 Well, I wish you luck, old boy. I suppose 
they are getting on famously out there. Are you going to 
settle ? ’ 

4 Yes ; I’m going to buy land with the money my uncle left 
n e, and start farming.’ 

4 All serene ; I’ll come out and see you when I’m through 
with my grinding,’ said Alastair, with the air of a hard-worked 
student. * Come on out for a stroll, Fergus. It’s a lovely 
night. You never saw a more glorious moon, and we can talk 
as well outside as here.’ 

4 I don’t mind if I do,’ said Fergus, reaching out for his 
boots. 

He felt glad, honestly glad, to see Alastair. He liked him 
better than any fellow he knew. But who did not like 
Alastair ? 

He had taken his dismissal from Sheila very philosophically, 
though it had been a grievous disappointment at the time. 
But Alastair believed in making the best of everything, and so 
kept himself and others happy. 

They strolled out together arm in arm, and turned along 
Nicolson Street towards Newington. Fergus did the most of 
the talking, and did not pay much attention to anything 
passing round him, but Alastair’s eyes and ears were always 
open. 

‘I say, Fergus, that’s uncommon like M 4 Bean. It is him,’ 
he said suddenly. 4 And who’s that he’s got with him? What 
a pretty girl 1 ’ 

Fergus looked up, and his eyes fell on the sweet face of 
Katie Menzies. She was walking on the other side of the 
street, and her hand was through Angus M 4 Bean’s arm, and 


MY WIFE! 


3i9 


her face lifted confidingly to his. The sight made the hot, 
indignant blood surge to Fergus Maeleod’s face, and tingle even 
to his very finger tips. 

4 1 know who it is. A girl from the Fauld. She’s here for 
no good. But I’ll be even with him. I’ll make him give an 
account of himself, and I’ll take her home, if she’ll go.’ 

4 You won’t go one step just now/ said Alastair, gripping him 
firm and fast by the arm. 4 You never want to miss a chance 
of distinguishing yourself, if it’s only in a street brawl. Do you 
want to be the centre of a crowd immediately, and have a 
bobby marching you off to the lock-up ? You’ve no business to 
interfere with M 4 Bean, or the lassie either.’ 

4 Yes, I have,’ said Fergus fiercely. 4 She’s one of my folk, 
and she’s an orphan, and he had no right, the villain ! to entice 
her away. I will go, Alastair. Let go my arm.’ 

4 Wait a minute. Now she’s gone into a shop. Let’s go over 
and pretend to meetM 4 Bean accidentally, and see how he’ll look. 
Will you promise first not to take him by the throat, for you 
look fit enough, or even to speak, till I give you leave ? We’ll 
manage it all beautifully, and circumvent him too, if you only 
keep down your wild Macdonald temper. It’ll be the undoing 
of you some day, Fergus, my boy.’ 

Fergus held his peace, though his eyes were suspiciously 
brilliant-looking. So, keeping him tightly by the arm, Alastair 
marched him across the street. Katie was in a provision store, 
and Angus was standing at the window surveying the tempting 
array of ham, butter, eggs, and cheese displayed there. He did 
not see the two young men pass him, nor hear Alastair’s 
smothered laughter. It was so irresistibly funny to him to see 
the dandified Angus M 4 Bean standing apparently engrossed at a 
grocer’s window. After going a few yards they turned again, 
and stopped beside the window too ; then Angus saw them, but 
didn’t seem greatly put out, or even apprehensive of dis- 
covery. 

4 Are you making a study of the prices, in order to come down 
with a fell swoop on an unprincipled landlady ? ’ asked Alastair, 
for the sake of keeping Fergus quiet. He was himself rather 
mystified by M 4 Bean’s perfect self-possession, for at any moment 


320 


SHEILA. 


Katie might come out of the shop. She did come presently, 
with her hands laden with sundry small packages, of which 
Angus immediately relieved her. There was a pleasant, proud 
smile on his face, which gave Katie confidence, though at sight 
of the two gentlemen she had grown very red. 

‘ Katie, I need not introduce you to Mr. Fergus Macleod,’ said 
Angus, rather enjoying the thing. 4 This is Mr. Alastair Murray 
of Murrayshaugh — my wife.’ 

The two last words were uttered in a tone which put an end 
to all suspicion. Fergus was covered with confusion. Alastair 
was hard put to it to restrain his mirth at the sudden quench- 
ing of Fergus’s indignation. But he did manage to utter a 
few words of congratulation, and to say that he would be 
very happy to call upon Mrs. M‘Bean at No. 28 Rankeillor 
Street. 

As for Fergus, he tried to mutter something, but was glad when 
Alastair hurried him away. That incident put an end to their 
confidential talk for the night. Fergus could think and speak 
of nothing but the marriage of Puddin’ and Katie. When had 
it taken place, and where? why had he never heard of it? 
and a thousand other questions as unanswerable; until Alastair, 
tired of the theme, told him he was a perfect nuisance, and took 
the ’bus away home. 

When Fergus went back to his lodgings, he found a letter 
from his mother, in which she mentioned that great consterna- 
tion was in Achnafauld over Katie Menzies’ disappearance, and 
that consternation had given place that day to the utmost surprise, 
because her marriage with young Angus M‘Bean was announced 
in the Courant of Tuesday. She added that they were saying 
Malcolm’s usage had compelled Katie to run away from him, 
and that they were saying, too, that Malcolm had gone clean 
out of his mind over it. Fergus was so excited over all this 
news, that, though it was nearly nine o’clock, he put on his cap 
and ran away round to No. 28 Rankeillor Street. It was 
M 4 Bean’s old lodgings ; for, as he was in negotiations for 
a situation as under-factor in Roxburghshire, it would not have 
been wise to take a house in Edinburgh. Fergus asked for 
Mrs. M 4 Bean, and was instantly shown into the sitting-room, 


MY WIFE / 


3 21 

where the young couple were having a cup of coffee and a bit 
of bread and cheese for supper. 

Katie, all blushes and smiles, jumped up at sight of Mr. Fergus, 
who held out his hand, and said heartily, — 

4 1 just came round to congratulate you, Mrs. M‘Bean. I was 
stunned in the street, and hadn’t a word to say. I beg your 
pardon, Angus, and I wish you joy.’ 

4 Not at all ; delighted to see you, aren’t we, Katie ? ’ said 
Angus, a trifle confusedly. 4 Will you take a cup of coffee? 
King for a cup and plate, Katie. Sit down, Fergus.* 

So Fergus sat down at the table with them, and how proud and 
happy was the bonnie young wife to have Mr. Fergus sitting at 
her own table. Never had she looked so sweet, so graceful, 
so happy. Happiness is a great beautifier, and there was no 
need to ask if Katie was happy. Fergus felt more and more 
ashamed of himself for his uncharitable suspicions about her 
husband. 

4 I’m only vexed at running away as I did from Malcolm,’ said 
Katie, with a tremble of the lip, after they had spoken for a 
little about it. 4 But if he had known, I believe he would have 
killed me, Mr. Fergus. I dinna ken what’s to become of poor 
Malky. I fear he’ll need to go to Murthly at the end. He’s 
no’ safe.* 

4 You can’t vex yourself about him, Katie, for I’m sure you 
did more than your duty to him,* said Fergus kindly. 4 And 
are you going back to spend Easter at Auchloy ? * 

4 O no ; we’re disinherited,’ said Angus, with a laugh, 4 by 
everybody but my mother. She sent Katie her blessing and a 
silk dress. We’re done with Auchloy.* 

He spoke lightly; and, indeed, he did not feel the rupture 
with the others as long as he had his mother’s blessing. But 
Fergus saw Katie’s sweet face shadow a little. Now that she 
was his wife beyond recall, she feared he had sacrificed too 
much for her. But he would not let her think it, much less 
say it. A new man, indeed, in every respect was Puddin’ 
M‘Bean. 

They confided their hopes and plans to Fergus, and it was 
near midnight when he went back to his lodgings. They 


3 22 


SHEILA . 


seemed dreary and cold. The sight of Angus and his bonnie 
wife had reminded him of what was so far out of his reach. 
Even if Sheila cared for him, and remained true, many years 
must pass before he could hope even to stand as an equal in her 
presence. 




CHAPTER XXXYIL 


A DARK NIGHT. 



I suffered hate, slow hate, 

That bides its time. 

J. B. Selkirk. 

ERGUS MACLEOD went home as usual upon the 
thirty-first of March. Their steamer, the Bosphorus , 
was to sail from Glasgow on the twenty-second of 
April. He found that his mother had got the 
preparations well forward for their departure, and that she was 
in the best of health and spirits. The intervening time passed 
rapidly, for there was a great deal still to do ; and their last 
day at Shonnen, in the old Glen, came before they knew where 
they were. The best of the things at Shonnen were going 
with them; for though the transit of their goods would be 
more expensive than their own passages, money would be saved 
at the other end. There were no upholsterers’ warehouses as 
yet in the township at Fergus Creek. 

4 Pm going over to the Fauld, mother, to say good-bye, and 
get all their last messages for the folks over the sea,’ said 
Fergus, after their early tea. 4 But I shall not be late.’ 

4 Don’t hurry ; I am going out also, Fergus, up to Dalmore.’ 

Fergus gave a quick start, and looked at his mother with 
something of apprehension in his eye. She smiled a little, and 
shook her head. 


823 



324 


SHEILA. 


‘ I have something to say to Sheila, Fergus, — something 
which it would not grieve you very much to hear. Can I take 
her any message from you ? * 

‘None, except that I have not forgotten the last night of the 
year and my vow,’ said Fergus, a little huskily ; and, going up 
to his mother, he kissed her, without saying another word. 

They understood each other ; but if Fergus, as he strolled 
along to the Fauld, thought more of the house on the hill than 
the low-lying clachan whither he was bound, it need not be 
wondered at. He went by Kinloch, looked in for a word with 
the few who still remained there, and then crossed the bridge, 
and up by Malcolm Menzies’ croft to Janet’s cottage. He had 
never yet seen Malcolm since he came home. He had had a 
great deal of journeying to and from Glasgow, as well as to 
Crieff and Dunkeld, in connection with their voyage ; but though 
he had been several times in the Fauld, as I said, he had never 
seen Malcolm. He had heard of him, however, — dark hints 
from most of the folk, and even Rob Macnaughton could only 
shake his head when his name was mentioned. Rob had 
sustained a severe disappointment in the ill turning out of 
Malcolm, who, beyond a doubt, had the heaven-born gift of 
song, though he had never given it voice. It was not his 
blame, poor lad ! if nature had given him the larger gift, she 
had taken from him something of infinitely greater value. There 
was no doubt that Malcolm Menzies lacked in judgment, and that 
the folk were not far wrong when they called him ‘ daft/ No 
human being had heard him speak Katie’s, name since she went 
away ; and one man who mentioned it one day suddenly found 
himself levelled to the ground. The melancholy, miserable 
man dwelt alone in the cottage which Katie’s bonnie presence 
had been wont to brighten, and no foot but his own was ever 
allowed to step across it. How he lived they did not know. 
For days together there would be no smoke at his ‘lum-heid,’ 
and he had sold all his cows. A crust of bread and a drink of 
water was his only food, and in a few weeks’ time he was 
reduced to a skeleton. Rob Macnaughton had tried to take him 
in hand, — had pointed out that Katie had made a good marriage, 
for which he, Malcolm, should be thankful ; but the wild, 


A DARK NIGHT 


325 


disordered brain seemed incapable of taking in the fact. He 
had but one desire, — though, with the cunning of the insane, it 
was never breathed, — and that was to have his revenge upon 
Angus M‘Bean. He was biding his time ; and, having heard 
that young Angus had come over for a day or two alone, to get 
away some of his belongings from Auchloy, he was constantly 
prowling about on the watch. Fergus found the cottage door 
locked ; and though he peered in at both windows, there was no 
sign of Malcolm. He was, indeed, prowling about the birch 
wood on the other side of the loch, waiting for young Angus 
M‘Bean, whom he had seen cross the bridge in the afternoon. 
Disappointed of Malcolm, Fergus leaped the burn, and lifted the 
sneck of Bob Macnaughton’s door. Bob was at his loom, which 
went somewhat slowly and heavily now, for the stocking-weaver’s 
powerful limbs were not proof against the hand of time. Bob 
had now become a bent old man. 

‘ Bob, come into the kitchen ! * cried Fergus cheerily. 1 Mind, 
it’s our last crack/ 

Bob got off his stool as nimbly as his rheumatic leg would 
allow him, and came hirpling ben to the kitchen, with the old- 
time smile on his face. 

* So, lad, ye are for off? * 

1 Ay, Bob ; to-morrow Glenquaich will know me no more, — at 
least for some years/ he added, and his voice gave a quiver. 
It was a wrench to leave the old Glen, and Achnafauld, — ay, and 
Crom Creagh, which sheltered what was dearer to him than life 
itself. 

* Weel, weel, when ye come back, Fergus Macleod, the grass 
will be green abune Bob Macnaughton in Shian, and the merle 
maybe singing on his grave. Ye are a braw chield! The Lord 
bless ye, an’ bring ye back to them that lo’e ye, and they are 
mony, both here an’ ower the sea/ 

‘More than I deserve, Bob,’ Fergus said soberly. ‘I 
thought maybe you’d have a new song for me to take over 
to Fergus Creek. I doubt you are getting lazy in your old 
age/ 

‘My singing days are done, lad. An’ what’s to become o’ 
our young lady after ye are away? Ye are but a fule, though 


326 


SHEILA. 


I say it, Mr. Fergus, to leave sic a prize to be snappit up by 
anybody.’ 

4 1 am not worthy, Rob,’ Fergus answered, in a low voice. 

4 And what for no’ ? Ye wadna like onybody but yoursel’ to 
say that, nor wad I,’ said the stocking-weaver, who had utterly 
refused to credit any of the detrimental stories he had heard 
about his favourite, and thought he had no equal in the wide 
world. 4 Man, I think I’d rather be a laird in Glenquaich than 
in America, though it seems a guid land, if Donald Macalpine 
and Jamie Stewart write what’s true. Miss Sheila would fain 
have had them back after the thing was in her hands, but they 
seemed to think themsel’s better whaur they are.’ 

4 Rob, do you know whether she wrote to any of them ? ’ 

4 Ay did she, for she showed me the letter ; and old though I 
be, my een were wet as I read it. She wrote to Jamie Stewart, 
offering him Turrich for half naething, an’ Little Turrich for 
young Rob, and the smiddy to Donald Macalpine ; but they 
never sent back a single word, which made me mad, I can tell 
ye, for the credit o’ the Glen.’ 

4 It was certainly very ungrateful. I shall ask them what 
they meant, and make them send back a humble apology by the 
next mail. Rob, I’ll miss having your door to run to when the 
spirit moves me.’ 

4 Ay, lad ; and your blithesome face will come no more in at 
my door. Ye hae been sunlicht an’ munelicht an’ a’ to me, 
Fergus, — you an’ Miss Sheila.’ 

4 She will always come,’ said Fergus quickly. 4 And I can 
think I see her sitting here, and you reading out of your old 
poetry books.’ 

4 Mr. Fergus,’ said Rob, with a low, delightful laugh, 4 she was 
for me printin’ my sangs in the Gaelic, and giein’ them to the 
world, as she put it. But I shakes my heid, and I says, 44 When 
I’m awa’, they’ll be yours, my doo, to dae what ye like wi’.” So 
maybe, wha kens ? Rob Macnaughton’s name ’ll live after him, 
jist like Shakespeare and Sir Walter, — ay, ay, jist like Shake- 
speare and Sir Walter.’ 

Fergus could not but smile at the old man’s delight. The 
idea that Sheila had thought them worthy to be put in print 


A DARK NIGHT. 


327 


had pleased him, though he would not consent to its being done 
in his lifetime. 

1 Fergus, ye didna see Malcolm Menzies as ye cam’ by ? * 
asked the old man, changing the subject, and speaking in a 
very anxious tone. 

‘ 1 wanted to, Rob, but his door was locked,’ 

Rob shook his head. 

‘ I kenna what the end will be. It’ll be his ain life, or some 
other body’s. Eh, Fergus, what for did the Almichty gie the 
puir lad one gift, an’ tak’ awa’ his judgment?’ 

‘Do you really think Malcolm is mad, Rob?’ 

‘ He’s no’ faur off it. He should be shut up, Fergus ; but 
they’ll no* dae it or there’s mischief dune. I saw him awa ower 
the brig at six o’clock, with a shearin’-heuk in his hand, an’ 
afore that I saw the factor awa’ to Kinloch, or maybe farther. 
Young Angus is here, too. They should tell him to keep a 
safe distance frae the Fauld. How like his faither he has got 1 
Ye could hardly tell the ane frae the ither, unless ye saw them 
face to face.’ 

‘Angus M‘Bean has turned out well,’ said Fergus. ‘I am 
sorry about poor Malcolm. He used to be a fine lad, and I 
thought he would make something better.* 

Rob shook his head. 

‘ Do you really think he would do any harm to anybody, 
Rob?’ 

‘ Ay do I. I wadna trust him ; an’ I hoped when I saw him 
awa’ ower the brig wi’ the heuk that the factor would gang 
round by Garrows, an’ no’ come through the plantin’ after dark.’ 

‘But it’s young Angus he has the grudge at, Rob.’ 

4 Ay ; but when a man’s bluid’s up he doesna care wha comes 
first. I thocht when I saw him gang that he had mista’en the 
faither for the son ; but maybe I’m ill-judgin’ the laddie.’ 

‘I’m going over to Auchloy to see Angus. If his father isn’t 
home, I’ll send him out after him,’ said Fergus, rising. A 
vague sense of uneasiness was upon him. What did Malcolm 
mean by going over the brig, with a shearing-hook in his hand, 
at that time of night ? 

‘Dae that, lad. There’s a sense of evil in the air that I 

28 


328 


SHEILA . 


canna understand. I could hope, laddie, that yer last nicht in 
the Glen be na shadowed wi’ a crime. My mind is not at rest ; 
but if the factor were at Shian, I think, surely, he wad gang 
round by Garrows.* 

Rob had imparted to Fergus his own apprehension, and the 
young man walked as fast as he could up to Aucliloy. The 
night was closing in, and a cloud, dark, heavy, and ominous, 
came stealing up the Glen, and turned the shining loch into a 
black and frowning sea. A sudden wind rose, and swept up 
the Glen with a gusty shriek. Fergus looked across at the 
birch plantation beyond the loch with a curious sick feeling at 
his heart. Was there a dark tragedy even now being enacted 
there, and was nature giving warning of it ? He gave a loud 
knock at the door of Auchloy. To his relief, Angus himself 
opened it. 

‘ Get your hat, Angus, and come out,’ he said quickly. * I 
want to speak to you. Don’t disturb the ladies.’ 

Angus M‘Bean looked amazed, the manner of Fergus was so 
uneasy and strange. He snatched a cap from the hall table, 
and came out quickly, closing the door behind him. 

‘ Is your father in, Angus?’ Fergus asked. 

‘No, he has gone to Shian. WeTe expecting him, though, 
shortly. 1 

‘ Will he come home by Garrows? ’ 

‘No ; by Turrich and Kinioch. He wants to see Peter Ross 
at Turrich, and he would not be in from the fields until after 
seven, at any rate.* 

‘We’ll go and meet him, then, Angus. I don’t want to 
alarm you,’ said Fergus, ‘but I fear Malcolm Menzies means 
mischief to-night. Have you seen him since you came home?* 

‘No. What do you mean, Fergus?* asked Angus quickly, 
with a disturbed, startled look on his face. 

‘ Rob Macnaughton saw him away over the bridge, and didn’t 
like the look of him,’ said Fergus. ‘ He may mean nothing, but 
it can do us no harm to go as far as the plantation and meet 
your father.* 

Fergus was much excited. Angus, though the interest 
was more specially his, was quite cool. But he was cast in a 


A DARK NIGHT. 


3 2 9 


different mould from Fergus Macleod. Besides, he did not really 
apprehend any danger from Malcolm Menzies. If his father 
should meet him, he thought they would be equally matched. 

So, as they walked from Auchloy to the Fauld, and across the 
croft to the bridge, he talked all the way about other things, 
chiefly about the voyage Fergus was about to make. It was 
quite dark by the time they reached the bridge ; there was no 
moon, and the clouds were heavy. It was impossible to see 
more than a step or two in front. Beyond the bridge the 
lights of Kinloch gleamed cheerily through the gloom, and 
somewhat relieved the inky blackness. As they passed over 
the bridge they heard the sullen flow of the river, which was 
very deep just where it rose out of the loch. Their talk flagged 
a little after they had passed by Kinloch and neared the birch 
wood. They entered its black shadow, and walked a few 
hundred yards ; then Angus stopped. 

‘ Let’s listen,* he said, in a whisper. 

They stood absolutely still, almost breathless, but not a sound 
broke the still and heavy air. 

‘I don’t think there’s any use going further,’ said Angus then. 
‘ My father might go round by Garrows. It’s not a nice road 
this after dark, and he would take the chance of a drive if he 
got it. The horse was tired with thirty miles this morning, 
that’s why he walked.* 

‘Well, if you are satisfied, we can go back,’ said Fergus. 
‘ We might wait here long enough. As like as not, Malcolm 
Menzies will be locked in his own house by this time. I 
wonder, though, they don’t move to have him taken away. It 
really isn’t safe for him to be going about.’ 

‘ I don’t think he’d do much harm myself,* said Angus 
lightly. * Are you going straight along to Shonnen ? * 

‘Yes; I’m too late as it is,’ said Fergus; and they walked 
very sharply back to Kinloch. 

‘Good-bye, then,* said Fergus, stretching out his hand. ‘I 
won’t likely see you again. Give my love to Mrs. M‘Bean. 
You needn’t be jealous, when I’m going away so soon and so 
far.* 

‘ Not a bit, thank you, Fergus. Good-bye,’ said Angus, and 


33 ° 


SHEILA . 


went whistling over the bridge, and away back to Auchloy, 
thinking all the way of his bonnie wife, whom he would see 
again by that hour on the morrow. When he arrived, he 
found that his father had not come home. The hours passed, — 
ay, and the night, — but Angus M‘Bean the elder returned no 
more to his home. 




CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

PEACE. 

Love found me in the wilderness, 

Where I myself had lost. 

Trench. 

HE sun had not set when Ellen Macleod crossed over 
the Girron Brig that evening for the first time 
since the day of Macdonald’s burying. She could 
not but think of that day and of its bitterness. 
She wished she could forget, but memory is relentless when 
her record has a sting of remorse. It was a fine mild evening, 
the air motionless and heavy, and the sun sank under a great 
mass of dark purple cloud, made somewhat weird by the sharp 
edge of blood-red against it. There was rain in that purple 
cloud. 

The burn was big with the spring-tide showers, and danced 
and leaped merrily under the old bridge, on which all the 
mosses were green, and little clumps of delicate oak fern, spring- 
ing here and there in odd corners, contrasted finely with the 
yellow of the primroses and the stonecup. There was a dreamy, 
far-off look upon thp serene face of Ellen Macleod as she trod 
that familiar way, and before she went within the shadow of the 
trees on the carriage-way, she turned and looked back upon 
Amulree and Shonnen, and then away up the Glen to the trees 
at Shian. Her lips moved, and her eyes shone. She was 




33 2 


SHEILA. 


bidding farewell to it all, her last farewell. As she looked, her 
lips moved silently, perhaps in prayer. The hall door stood 
wide open at Dalmore, and just within it the staghound was 
lying, as if keeping guard over it. He raised his majestic head 
and gave a growl at sight of the stranger, and then, as if moved 
by a second thought, he came slowly to meet her, giving his tail 
a friendly wag to reassure her. She laid her hand on his head, 
and spoke a word to him, which appeared to please him hugely, 
for he gambolled before her in his uncouth fashion up to the 
door. The dog’s welcome pleased her. It seemed to augur 
well for her reception within. The housemaid who answered 
the bell looked very genuinely surprised to see her. 

4 Step into the library, ma’am, if you please, and I’ll tell Miss 
Sheila,’ she said, holding open the library door. An ordinary 
caller would have been ushered at once to the drawing-room, 
but the girl was dubious whether her young mistress would see 
Mrs. Macleod. She saw her look of surprise when the girl gave 
her the name, but without a moment’s hesitation she went 
downstairs. She stood just a second at the library door, for 
her heart was beating more quickly than usual. She did not 
know what this visit of Ellen Macleod might portend. When 
she entered the room her colour was heightened, and when Ellen 
Macleod turned from the window and saw the lissom figure in 
soft grey, the sweet face crowned by its plaits of sunny hair, and 
wearing a half-startled look, she thought she had never beheld 
a more lovely creature. 

‘Good-evening,’ Sheila said kindly, but did not offer her 
hand. She did not quite know how to act. The memory of the 
past was with her, but there was that in the face of Ellen 
Macleod she had never seen upon it before, and which seemed 
to make the childish terror more and more like a dream. 

Ellen Macleod looked for a moment on the girl’s sweet, 
flushed face, then she advanced swiftly, with outstretched 
hands. 

4 Will you touch my hand in friendship, Sheila Macdonald, 
just to give me courage to go on ? * 

‘ I do not understand you,’ Sheila faltered ; and she laid her 
own soft, warm young hands on those outstretched to her. 


PEACE. 


333 

Then Ellen Macleod bent and kissed them, before she drew 
herself away. 

4 I have come, though late/ she said, with a curious huski- 
ness in her voice, 4 to ask your forgiveness for all the wrong I 
have done to you.’ 

4 It is nothing ! 9 cried Sheila, out of her sweet compassion — 
* nothing at all. I am so glad to see you. Do sit down ; do 
come up and take off your bonnet, and stay with me for a little. 
I am so glad to see you at Dalmore/ 

4 Oh, child ! you make me ashamed/ cried Ellen Macleod, and 
her proud mouth trembled. 4 Can you forgive me, not only for 
yourself, but for those who are away ? * 

4 Yes, yes ; don’t say another word ! ’ cried Sheila, with wet 
eyes, and a smile which radiated her whole face. 4 Look at my 
mother there in the picture. She seems to smile upon us. 
I am sure she is glad to see us together.’ 

Ellen Macleod broke down. She threw herself in a chair, and 
sobbed convulsively ; and Sheila, moving to her side, laid her 
hand gently on her shoulder, but said never a word. 

4 1 have b$en a wicked woman, Sheila/ she said at length. 

4 God sent me a terrible lesson that night Fergus came here. 
I thought I had sent him to his death. It was a terrible 
lesson, but not more terrible than I needed. My heart was 
like the nether millstone, Sheila, but that awful night broke it. 
I could not live through such another.’ 

Sheila touched the white hair with a very tender, lingering 
touch. There was something almost divine in the look upon 
her face. She had a heart an angel might have envied. She 
only wished she could wipe away every sting which memory 
had planted in the bosom of the woman by her side. The 
past was forgotten. Its harshest discords were lost in the sweet 
harmony of this blessed moment. Her heart’s desire was ful- 
filled. The only enemy she had had in the world was now her 
friend. A sense of the goodness and mercy of God tilled the 
child’s soul with a song of humble thanksgiving. She could 
have knelt upon her knees and prayed. 

4 1 have long wished to come, but my courage failed me. 
When I thought of what I had done to you, of the wicked 


334 


SHEILA . 


thoughts I had entertained towards you, my conscience seemed 
to dare me to come. But we go away to-morrow, and I told 
myself that I could not go without a word of forgiveness and 
farewell.’ 

* Oh, I wish you were not going now 1 ’ cried Sheila 
impulsively. 4 How different it would be 1 Could you not 
stay even yet ? ’ 

Ellen Macleod shook her head, with a somewhat sad 
smile. 

4 No ; our course is shaped, and we must fulfil our destiny. 
And it will be for my son’s good. He will have out there 
the life he loves, and has always craved for. Sheila Macdonald, 
if you live to have sons of your own, you will understand what I 
feel now, though you will never be able to understand the part 
I acted towards my boy in his youth. I was not fit to be a 
mother, nor to have the care and upbringing of a child. When 
I look upon my son I am amazed that he should be such as he 
is. God has not punished me as I deserved, though that night 
I feared He had.’ 

Sheila was silent, with her tender touch still upon the shoulder 
of Fergus’s mother. She could not join in his praise ; but ah 1 
what was in her heart ? 

4 1 can go away now content, Sheila Macdonald,* said Ellen 
Macleod, rising at length, and laying her hands somewhat 
heavily on the girl’s slender shoulders. 4 And I go, praying God 
bless Dalmore, and its bonnie, sweet mistress, for ever and ever 1 
It is worthy of her, and she of it.’ 

Sheila bowed her head under that blessing, the sweetest she 
had ever heard. 

‘Would you not go through the house before you go?’ she 
said timidly. 4 You might like a last look, though I will not 
believe you will never come back ; and if there is anything you 
would care to take to keep you in remembrance of Dalmore, do 
not hesitate, I entreat you. It will please me more than I can 
say if you will but take whatever you would like.’ 

4 1 need nothing to remind me of Dalmore,’ said Ellen 
Macleod, with a touch of passionate sadness in her voice. 
4 Child, child, I know every stone and tree about it. I can 


PEACE. 


335 


shut my eyes and see every room in its minutest detail. 
Tell me, did the white heather your mother planted live? ’ 

‘ O yes ; the pots are in the greenhouse. I was telling 
Lachlan that I thought the weather mild enough now for them 
to be brought round to the door. They are covered with buds 
already.’ 

4 Then all I want is a spray with a little root at it to plant in 
a pot beside a bit of purple heather from Shonnen ; and if they 
grow together, Sheila, it will be an emblem of my hope.’ 

But what that hope was Sheila did not ask. It might be 
that she understood. When she went away, Sheila accompanied 
her down to the Girron Brig, and in the solemn, dusky twilight 
they parted there. 

4 J have my son’s message yet,* said Ellen Macleod. ‘He 
bade me tell you that he had not forgotten the last night of the 
year, nor the vow he made to you then. What that vow was I 
know not, but I pray God reward you for the good words you 
spoke to Fergus Macleod that night. They were his salvation, 
and whatever his future may be, if he achieve aught that is 
noble or worthy, he will owe it, under God, to you, and not to 
me, his mother, who would give her right hand for the privilege. 
I can only wait upon and serve for love ; it is you who will 
make the man. Have you any message for the boy ? His 
heart will hunger for a word to carry with him across the sea.’ 

4 Tell him,’ said Sheila, struggling with her tears, 4 that I have 
forgotten that night, and that I look forward to the day when 
he will come back. Tell him that, be that day soon or late, he 
will find a welcome at Dalmore.’ 

4 1 will. Sheila, will you kiss me before I go ? We shall 
never meet again.* 

So they kissed each other solemnly, silently, and went their 
separate ways. Sheila’s heart beat with a hungry, passionate 
pain as she went back to her lonely home. Looking from out 
the drawing-room window across to the bright light in the 
dining-room at Shonnen, she thought she would give much — ay, 
even Dalmore itself — to go with these exiles across the sea, All 
day she had been upheld by the hope that Fergus himself 
would come for a word of farewell, and to see if she had any 


336 


SHEILA. 


message for those across the sea. But he had kept his vow to 
see her face no more until he should have redeemed the time, 
and had a white fair page to lay above that blemished one 
which would be ever before his eyes as a warning and a shield in 
the time of temptation or moral trial, and though Sheila under- 
stood it all quite well, and honoured him for his stedfastness of 
purpose, her woman’s heart was rebelliously sore, and even the 
future seemed dark and gloomy. It was shrouded in uncertainty, 
and she could not find much comfort even in the thought that 
Fergus had promised to come back. 

Ellen Macleod was home before Fergus. She found Jessie 
Mackenzie busy among the baggage, bustling about with a great 
sense of importance. She had elected to throw in her fortunes 
with the small family she had so long served, and they were 
only too willing to take her with them. 

4 I’m sure Maister Fergus needna hae bidden sae lang at the 
Fauld the nicht,’ were the words with which she greeted her 
mistress. 1 There’s five boxes no’ roped, an’ it’s nine o’clock, an’ 
the cart cornin’ at six o’clock in the morning.’ 

4 Mr. Fergus will not be long of roping these, Jessie,’ said her 
mistress good-humouredly. 4 Now, while you were packing, did 
you keep to the lists I made out, so that we can lay our hands 
on what we want without requiring to turn every box out ? ’ 

4 Yes, ma’am, everything’s richt ; jist ask me when ye want 
onything, an’ I’ll lay my finger on it jist at once,’ replied Jessie 
proudly ; and just then Mr. Fergus returned, and her mind was 
relieved by the sight of the five boxes roped and labelled, ready 
for the hold of the Bosphorus . 

Over the fire that night Fergus and his mother talked of past, 
present, and future, and when she gave him Sheila’s message 
he never said a word. She forbore to look at him while she 
delivered it, and immediately changed the subject, for which 
her son blessed her in his heart. At six o’clock next morn- 
ing a carriage from Dalmore came bowling over the Girron Brig, 
and drew up at the gate of Shonnen. The coachman had a noie 
for Mrs. Macleod. It was only to beg that, as a last favour, she 
would make use of the carriage to the station, and there was a 
basket of spring flowers and some hot-house fruit for the journey. 


PEACE. 


337 

‘ Ilae ye heard the news about Auchloy, sir?* asked the man, 
touching his hat to Fergus when he came out of the gate. 

‘ No ; what’s that? ’ asked Fergus, in a startled voice. 

‘ He wasna hame a* nicht, and they’ve found him this morn- 
ing in the Braan just below the brig, dead.’ 

‘Drowned?’ asked Fergus, in horror. 

‘ Ay ; but he was hurt, they say, afore he was thrown over. 
They’re seekin* for Malcolm Menzies. He hasna been in the 
Fauid since the forenicht yesterday. They say he’s awa’ ower 
the hills to Aberfeldy, clean stark mad.’ 

Ah, poor Malcolm Menzies ! The bitter end had come. The 
nursing of a revengeful passion, working upon an excitable, 
overstrung temperament, had thrown reason from her throne. 
Fergus, remembering their laddie-time, turned away with his 
eyes full of tears. 





CHAPTER XX£IX, 

Macdonald’s last will. 

Does the road wind up hill all the way?— 

Yes, to the very end. 

! HEY found poor Malcolm ere the day was far spent, 
and took him to Perth Prison to await his trial. 
The trial would be a mere form, for nothing could 
be proved; and it was probable that, after the 
examination, he would be removed to the asylum at Murthly. 
Colin Fisher, the farmer in Kinloch, had been the first to see the 
body of the factor lying on the river bank in the early morning 
He was quite dead, with a long bruise on the temple, administered 
by some heavy instrument, or perhaps sustained in his fall. The 
affair was discussed in all its bearings with that morbid minute- 
ness country people love. The wildest rumours were afloat; 
but as there were no eye-witnesses to the struggle, — if there had 
been a struggle, — nothing certain could be known. The accept- 
able idea, however, was that Malcolm, in the frenzy of the 
moment, had thrown Angus M‘Bean over the bridge. It was 
impossible, owing to the height of the parapet, that he could 
have fallen over it, even if struggling close by it. It created a 
painful sensation in the Glen, where both were well known. 
There was nothing but pity for the poor lad who had done the 
cruel deed ; and as for Angus M‘Bean, the factor, they spoke 


MACDONALD'S LAST WILL 


339 


kindly of him, with that beautiful touch of loving-kindness and 
charity which death never fails to bring forth. He is a callous 
man who will speak evil of the dead. Angus M‘Bean the 
younger went through to Edinburgh, and brought his wife 
to Auchloy the following morning. His mother, with an 
unselfish kindness for which many blessed her, and none more 
earnestly than poor Katie herself, would not turn her back 
upon the innocent because of another’s sin. She it was who 
wrote the sad news to Katie, and she gave her a daughter’s 
welcome to Auchloy. And in a few days all was over, and 
Angus M‘Bean was laid to rest in the kirkyard at Amulree, 
and his faults were buried with him. 

During that trying time for the Auchloy household, Sheila 
was constant in her kind attention to them. It was in such 
ways, sharing their griefs, and sympathizing with their joys, 
that the young Lady of Dalmore endeared herself to her people. 
She believed that a great responsibility rested upon her; she 
held her heritage as a solemn trust, and, as far as her knowledge 
went, did her utmost for all with whom she had to deal. There 
were few grumblings now in Glenquaich, for Sheila was a wise, 
just, generous mistress. She did not, however, give charity to 
any except the most needy ; she had a shrewd sense of what 
was due to herself, likewise ; and it was her aim and desire to 
foster in the cottars that independent, self-reliant spirit which 
was wont to be Scotland’s glory. Of indiscriminate giving she had 
seen the evil, and, while carrying out all reasonable improve- 
ments, and giving her tenants fair conditions under which to 
live, she required that there should be no arrears of rent after 
some past debts to the estate were wiped away. There was no 
excuse for the idle or the shiftless, and these, of course, com- 
plained that the new rule was as hard as the old. Sheila knew 
every household in the Glen, and kept the black sheep, of whom 
there were a few, strictly under her own surveillance. She 
had her troubles ; sometimes her generous kindness and honest 
endeavours were met by ingratitude and disappointment ; but, 
on the whole, the Glen, and especially the Fauld, was in a 
flourishing, contented state. Shortly after the factor’s death, 
and having first taken counsel with her friend and adviser, Mr. 


34 ° 


SHEILA . 


Colquhoun, the lawyer, Sheila rode over to Auchloy one night, 
towards the end of May, to interview young Angus M‘Bean. 
She was taken into the drawing-room, where Katie, looking 
very white and tired, had lain down on the couch for a rest. 
Malcolm was constantly in Katie’s heart. Sheila was shocked 
to see her. Could that pale, shadowy creature in the black 
frock be the bonnie red-cheeked Katie of yore? She started 
up, ashamed of being caught ; but Sheila’s kind smile, ever ready, 
reassured her. 

‘ The heat has tired you, Katie ; isn’t it very hot for May ? * 
she said pleasantly. ‘I hope your husband is in ; I want very 
much to see him.’ 

‘He will not be very far away, Miss Sheila,’ said Katie, and 
seated herself dispiritedly on the sofa, as if she had lost her 
interest in life. 

‘ Katie, you look quite ill ; I am afraid you are vexing your- 
self about something.’ 

‘It’s Malky, Miss Sheila; ye see, I daurna mention his name 
here ; but oh, if I could only see him 1 Do you — do you think 
he’ll be hanged?’ 

The words came out in a sort of gasp ; and the look of 
absolute terror and agony on Katie’s face shocked Sheila 
inexpressibly. The thought of Malcolm on the scaffold had 
dwelt with Katie night and day, and was eating her very heart 
out. Sheila was filled with compassion, understanding how the 
poor girl’s feelings were pent up in her own breast. She must 
have suffered terribly during the last few weeks. 

‘ Hanged 1 0 no, Katie dear ; you must not think of such a 
thing,’ she said, with quiet reassurance. ‘ I was at Crieff to-day 
seeing Mr. Colquhoun, and we were speaking about Malcolm. 
He says — and you know he is a very clever man, Katie — tha, 
Malcolm will not be punished at all, even if anything were 
proved, and that is impossible ; he was not responsible. He 
will be sent to Murthly, and will be very kindly and carefully 
dealt with there, I assure you. You may believe what I am 
saying, Katie, for I would not deceive you, and Mr. Colquhoun 
knows all about it.’ 

Katie burst into tears. What relief these words gave her 


MACDONALD’S LAST WILL 


34i 


none knew but herself. She dried her eyes hastily when the 
door opened and her husband entered. She left the room 
immediately; and Sheila saw how Angus’s eyes followed her, 
and knew that it had made no difference to him. 

4 Your wife has been vexing herself needlessly about her 
brother,’ said Sheila, after she had shaken hands with Angiu. 

4 1 quite understand how she cannot talk about it, even to you.’ 

4 I saw there was something worrying her. I know what 
it is. But they can’t do anything to him, nor would we 
wish it,’ said Angus, in a low voice. 4 Poor Malcolm was not 
responsible.’ 

4 1 have just been telling Katie lkit ( but if you would tell her 
too, I am sure it would do good,’ said Sheila. 4 1 came over to 
see you on a little matter of business. Are you going back to 
Edinburgh soon?’ 

4 Indeed, I don’t know, Miss Sheila ; I must stay here, I 
suppose, till I get something to do,’ said Angus, with rather a 
melancholy smile, for he had found office -seeking a heartless 
task. 

4 Would you care to take your father’s place?’ Sheila asked 
at once. 

Angus M 4 Bean flushed all over with surprise and delight. The 
idea had not occurred to him, as he did not consider himself 
qualified for such a post. 

4 1 am not fit, Miss Sheila. I have had no experience- — 
practical experience, I mean ; but I would do my utmost to 
serve you,’ he said, not without emotion. 

4 1 am sure of that; and, you know, as to experience, we will 
be the less likely to fall out, for I have a great many whims. 
Do you think you could put up with them? ’ 

Angus M 4 Bean did not for the moment speak. A load was 
lifted from his heart. He saw that it was not a wise nor a good 
thing for him and his young wife to dwell under the same roof 
with his mother and sisters, however kind they might be. He 
knew that it must soon have an end. He had almost begun to 
fear, indeed, that, dearly as he loved Katie, he had done her an 
injury in marrying her before he had a home to offer her. 

4 You mustn’t say a word,’ said Sheila, with a pretty, wilful 


342 


SHEILA, 


smile, 4 for I have quite made up my mind about it, and laid all 
my plans. Your mother and sisters will stay on here, — that is, if 
they wish it, and you and Katie can live at Shonnen. Mrs. 
Macleod left the keys with me, and I know she will be quite'j 
pleased that you should live in it.’ 

4 Katie will thank you, Miss Sheila, for I Cannot/ said Angus 
M‘Bean huskily ; 4 but I will do my utmost to serve you.’ 

4 1 am sure of it, and I need no thanks/ said Sheila, with a 
sunny smile. 4 1 have spoken to Mr. Colquhoun about it. I 
went to see him to-day for that purpose. You will go down to 
Crieff at an early day, Mr. M 4 Bean, will you not, and settle the 
whole matter with him ? And now I must shake hands with 
my new factor, and run away, for the boy will be tired of 
holding Rob Roy, who has a rooted aversion to a strange hand 
on his bridle/ 

She would not wait for thanks. Sheila did not do good for 
selfish motives, to win approbation and flattery and praise. She 
was, as I said, honestly striving to fill w r orthily and well the 
responsible place God had apportioned to her. She did the 
duty lying to her hand, and so found a blessing with it. She 
went away from Auchloy that night leaving sunshine behind. 
She had given to the young couple, who had nothing in this 
world but loving hearts and willing hands, an aim and a hope 
for the future. The very day after his son’s hasty marriage, 
Angus M 4 Bean the elder had drawn up a new will, leaving 
everything to his wife and daughters. Young Angus had not 
even the proverbial shilling to console him, and matters had 
begun to look serious for him arid his young wife. But Angus 
would not long have remained idle. Love had made a man of 
him, and he would not be ashamed to soil his hands for Katie. 

Sheila gave Rob Roy the rein going home, and that frisky 
animal almost flew over the road. She wanted some violent, 
invigorating influence; the days had been strangely dark and 
even purposeless since Fergus went away. She had thought 
that there would not be much difference. She had seen him so 
seldom, even while he was in Edinburgh ; but ah ! the rolling 
sea was a strange barrier, and the world beyond Glenquaich was 
Very wide. She had quite decided, indeed, after the business 


MACDONALD'S LAST WLLL. 


343 


about the new factor was concluded, to go over to Murrayshaugh 
for a week. She was wearying to see Aunt Ailsa, and Alastair 
also, because he would talk to her about Fergus. 

Ah ! in some things, after all, Sheila was a little selfish. She 
did not take into account that Alastair’s honest heart might 
have received a serious wound. But he had certainly done his 
best to show her that he did not mind his dismissal in the least. 

After dinner that evening, Sheila went into the library to 
write two letters, — a brief note to her aunt, fixing a day for 
Murrayshaugh, and a letter to Mrs. Macleod, acquainting her 
with her rapid disposal of the house at Shonnen. There was 
a deep drawer in the escritoire, in which still lay all the books 
which had been Macdonald’s companions in his last illness. 
Sheila had wished them to be placed there untouched. She 
opened the drawer to use the blotting-book, her own being up 
in her dressing-room, and, almost involuntarily, she began to 
spell out once more the disjointed words which had been im- 
pressed on it the last time it was used. Then the old shadow 
crept up, chilly and darkly, over her heart, — the bygone fear 
lest she should be enjoying the heritage of another, lest Fergus 
Macleod should have gone forth to a life of toil and hardship 
when he should be by right Laird of Dalmore. After poring 
over the book for a long time, she began to lift the other things 
out one by one. At the bottom lay the Bible which Macdonald 
had been reading the day he died. It was an old-fashioned 
volume, with curious leather covers, which had a lining of green 
silk, and a little pocket into which the boards of the book were 
slipped. Sheila looked at the old volume with interest, and, 
when she opened it, a faint perfume of dried rosemary and 
thyme greeted her, and it seemed to have a message from the 
past. Just as she was about to close it, the leaves slipped over 
to the last page, and she then noticed a folded paper within the 
green silk pocket made by the lining. Without a thought — 
certainly, without the least suspicion of its contents — she slipped 
it out, and unfolded it on the desk. Then her face became very 
white, and her hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold 
the paper. It was what she had so long looked for, — what 
would have set everything right in the old bitter days if only 


344 


SHEILA. 


it had been found. The few cramped, uneven words were as 
follows : — 

4 This is my last will and testament. I leave Dalmore and 
Findowie to my nephew, Fergus Macleod, upon one condition, — 
that he marries my beloved daughter, Sheila Murray Macdonald, 
and adds the name of Macdonald to his own. If he will not 
fulfil these conditions, my former will, drawn up by Colquhoun, 
will stand good. 

4 Graham Macdonald.* 

As she read, the hot blood chased away the paleness from 
Sheila’s neck and cheek and brow. She laid her arms down 
upon the table, and buried her burning, throbbing face upon it, 
and cried until she was weak and spent. It was not a pleasant 
discovery for a young girl. Graham Macdonald had not in 
this done well by the child he so loved. For there had been 
no spoken love between her and Fergus Macleod, and yet, in 
the interests of truth and right, the contents of this will must 
be divulged. Poor Sheila I her proud young heart had to steer 
its way through many bitter waters before it anchored in the 
haven of love. 




CHAPTER XL. 

‘THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMInV 

But I dinna see the broom, wi* its tassels, on the lea, 

Nor hear the lintie’s sang o' my ain countrie. 

Gilfillan. 

HE close of one of the sweet days of early summer 
in the far West. The soft air was resonant with 
the hum of the insect world, and laden with the 
delicate odours of budding leaf and bursting bloom. 
The maples had donned their loveliest attire ; the sumach had 
its tender, bright shoots spread out in the sun , beech and oak 
and ash flaunted their emerald hues beside the sombre leafage 
of the pine. There were yellow buds on the stately golden 
rod, and the forest primeval was carpeted with a wondrous 
carpet of gaudy lilies, red and white and yellow, standing up 
bravely on their delicate but sturdy stems, and verily making 
the desert to blossom as the rose. The grass was living green 
on the rough roadsides, and the sparrows chirped noisily in 
every bough ; and sometimes the dainty blue jay, vain of his 
pretty dress, would perch on the rail of the quaint snake-fence, 
and utter his cheery but not very musical note. The sky was 
crystal clear, shading to westward from palest amber to flaming 
red and gold. The masses of the forest trees stood out against 
it with startling clearness, and a soft mellow light lay on the 
clustering homesteads, as if shedding upon them a benison of 

342 




346 


SHEILA. 


goodwill and peace. The fall wheat was green on the little 
cleared patches, and the healthy tops of the mangolds showing 
in other places between the stumps of the trees. 

It had been no light labour to which the pioneers from Glen- 
quaich had set themselves ; but their hearts did not fail them, 
for wherever they put in their ploughshare mother earth yielded 
them a bountiful return. The landscape was very flat, varie- 
gated only by the dark masses of the bush, with here and there 
a rolling breadth of rising ground, which could hardly be called 
a hillock. 

The homesteads were primitive, but picturesque ; the houses 
being built of substantial logs, welded together with rough 
cement, and roofed with shingles, — pieces of wood cut and 
laid after the manner of slates. The roomy barn, which in- 
cluded stable and byre and granary, — in a word, the whole 
4 steading ’ of a Scotch farm-place, — was built after the same 
style, and represented an extraordinary amount of labour. The 
several house and barn raisings in the township had been a 
source of great interest and amusement to the younger emi- 
grants, though the expedition with which the older settlers 
wrought when they came to help, and the amount of laborious 
toil they put into the working hours, rather astonished some 
of the lazier members of the new community. Imitation is a 
good thing, and these barn raisings brought out the 4 smed- 
dum ’ of the Highland exiles as years of 4 daidlin’ ’ at home 
would never have done. The roads were very rough and un- 
even ; the ground in many places being swampy, a difficulty 
obviated by the laying of logs across the way. As time went 
on, and drainage became more common, the roads in the new 
township would improve. The principal road led direct from 
the little village to the nearest railway station, twenty-three 
miles distant. 

The village, called so by courtesy only, consisted of one store, 
of that curious type seen nowhere but in the backwoods of 
a new country; a blacksmith’s shop; and a little frame house, 
which, from its shape and appearance, was evidently a place 
of worship. On this fine evening the village or township 
of Fergus Creek seemed to be in a state of unprecedented 


347 


‘ THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN V 

liveliness. The little creek, a limpid, pellucid stream, flowing 
in a sandy bed, like the burn in the old song, ‘ wimpled through 
the clachan,’ and the smiddy stood 6 ayont it,’ and at the 
smiddy door, the centre of an interested and excited throng, 
stood our old friend Donald Macalpine, the smith, looking more 
hale and hearty than he had ever done in Achnafauld. Donald 
had not changed his trade, for, of course, wherever there are a 
number of farms in a district, a smiddy is indispensable, so 
Donald felt himself so much at home, that if he had only had a 
‘reekin’ lum,’ as he said sometimes to Mary, he could hardly 
have believed himself away from the old Glen. But whether 
it was that Canadian wood burned more clearly than Highland 
peat, it is certain that the smiddy lum never bothered Donald 
at all. The smith was dressed in his best, as also were the 
others, whose faces were mostly familiar. From out the open 
door of Donald’s pretty frame cottage, which had received a 
new coat of pink paint, which made it look very smart indeed, 
there came a very appetizing odour of all sorts of good things 
cooking for a feast. Presently, Mary herself, looking, oh ! so 
sonsie and young, came out to the door, the gay ribbons of her 
cap fluttering excitedly about her flushed face. 

‘ Ony word yet, Donald ? The jeuks is dune to a turn, an’ 
the kettle’s beginnin’ to bile in.’ 

1 They canna’ be lang noo, Mary, my woman,’ Donald 
answered cheerily. ‘Allooin’ an hoor for the train bein’ late, 
they should be here in aboot ten meenits.’ 

‘Awa’ ayont the road, then, lads ; an’ you, Cam’ll Stewart, gar 
yer pipes play “The Cam’lls are Cornin’” wi’ a’ yer micht. 
Annie an’ me an’ Jeems’s wife an’ the weans ’ll be daunerin’ 
efter ye.’ 

Mary’s hint was acted upon, and the company formed 
themselves into a kind of procession, and marched off down the 
road, and young Campbell Stewart, the third laddie of the 
former tenant of Turrich, put the pipes to his mouth, and blew 
the familiar blast which had so often awakened the echoes of 
the Glenquaich hills. He had on the bright Macdonald kilt, 
plaid and all; and every man in the township who possessed 
a kilt had got into it, and it was like a miniature Highland 


348 


SHEILA. 


regiment marching along the road. The whole clan had 
gathered in the clachan, all the women and the bairns too ; 
bonnie Annie Stewart, young Jamie’s wife, with a bairn in her 
arms and one at her skirts, and her mother-in-law too, who, 
though granny now, looked almost as young as Annie herself. 
James Stewart of Turrich had never ceased to bless the day 
which had brought him to the kindly, healthy land across the 
sea. 

Though Mary Macalpine’s face was wreathed in smiles, there 
was a suspicious dimness about her eyes, which indicated the 
working of an inward emotion. There was a nervousness about 
her, too, and again and again she broke away from the talk of 
the women to run into her own snug kitchen for another look 
at the table. 

* If it had only been Maister Fergus hissel’, Ailie Stewart/ 
she said to James Stewart’s wife. 4 He tak’s bite an’ sup wi* 
a’body, an’ is aye pleased, but it’s anither thing to cook for the 
leddy o’ Shonnen/ 

4 Dinna you vex yoursel’, Mary, my woman/ Ailie answered 
gently. 4 Efter sailin’ on the sea, an’ eatin’ dry morsels in the 
train, an’ the kind o’ meat they gie ye here at railway stations, 
the leddy o’ Shonnen will no’ find fault wi’ your table. Better 
nor her micht relish it, for I never smelt a better smell/ 

Mary laughed ; but in she went again, for the sound of the 
pipes had turned evidently, and was now being borne on the 
swelling bosom of the wind straight towards the clachan. 

4 They’re cornin’, Mary ! we see the buggy on the tap o’ the 
hill ! ’ cried Ailie excitedly. 4 Come awa’, granny’s doos/ she 
added to the bairns, and set off from the door. 

But Mary did not follow. From the window-ledge she 
took a little flower-pot, in which, bowered among green 
moss, there stood up, brave and bonnie and strong, two 
yellow-eyed, pink-lipped gowans. This she set on the middle 
of the long low table, which was covered with white home- 
made bread and scones and oat cakes, and golden honey and 
firm yellow butter and delicious cheese, all made by loving 
hands in the township. Every household had sent something 
to Mary Macalpine’s table that night to tempt the exiles from 


• THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN\ 


349 


over the sea. Mary’s hands trembled as she touched the 
gowans. God alone knew with what love she had tended that 
sweet keepsake from her bairnie’s grave. And when the first 
bud had become a bonnie flower, she had received it as a direct 
message of comfort from the heaven where her bairn was 
waiting for her. As she heard the din coming nearer the 
house, she ran into the parlour, and, breaking a wee bit heather 
from the big bunch which hung always above the mantelpiece, 
she divided it into two sprigs, and laid one on the plate at the 
head of the table and one on the right hand. Then she put 
the tea in the teapot, and, all trembling, went out to the door. 

And there they were : the young Laird himself on his feet 
near the smiddy door, surrounded by all the folk, talking and 
laughing in the most delightful excitement. The buggy was 
close behind, and there sat Ellen Macleod, in the front seat 
beside James Stewart, with her veil up, and a smile of sunshine 
and peace upon her face. After the long, w r eary journey, her 
heart was touched inexpressibly by the welcome accorded to 
them by their ain folk; and though she knew it was for the 
boy’s sake, she did not grudge him it, nor feel any qualms about 
her own reception. She had to w r in the folk, and she would. 
Jamie Stewart, sitting by her side, and hearing her talk as they 
drove, had felt like a man in a dream. 

4 Hulloa, Mary, old woman 1 There you are 1 ’ 

Fergus strode from among the throng, and, gripping Mary’s 
two hands firm and fast in his strong young grasp, bent from 
his tall height and kissed her twice ; and then what a 4 Hurrah ! * 
broke from the people. 

4 He’s my laddie, my ain laddie ! * she said brokenly. 4 Let 
me gang, see, an’ speak to your mither. Ye’ll excuse us, my 
leddy ; you see, he was aye oor laddie in the Fauld.’ 

4 1 am his mother, and it does me good to see how he is 
beloved,’ Ellen Macleod said ; and when she alighted from the 
buggy, she took Mary’s hands too, and looked into the honest 
face with a wistful smile. 4 You have a welcome for me for my 
son’s sake. I see it in your eyes.’ 

This fairly broke Mary down. 

4 Come in, come in 1 dinna speak, my leddy, but come in ! The 


350 


SHEILA. 


tea’s a’ ready, an’ yer bed’s clean an sweet wi’ linen spun in the 
Fauld ; an’ see, there’s the heather and the gowans frae Shian, 
an’ a’ things that’s hamelike an’ canny ! — But guid Lord help 
me 1 Donald says I’m an auld fule, an’ so I am. Come in, 
come in I ’ 

When Ellen Macleod saw the table spread with so much good 
cheer, and was ushered into the dainty little bed-chamber Mary 
had provided for her, and above all, as she saw the kindly light 
of welcome in the face of the smith’s wife, her composure shook. 
Oh, how she had misunderstood and misjudged the folk, whose 
hearts were as pure as gold ! 

4 1 do not know what to say, Mrs. Macalpine. I feel your 
kindness in my heart. My boy will thank you. I trust every- 
thing to him.’ 

Then Mary knew that a great and wonderful change had 
taken place in the relations between mother and son, and her 
hands were very gentle as she helped the mistress of Shonnen 
off with her many wraps. 

4 It’s a lang, weary journey, my leddy ; but, my certy ! ye are 
better aff than we were when we cam’, for there’s a guid meal 
o’ meat waitin’ ye. Sirce ! when I cam’, an’ saw naething but 
trees an’ trees an’ better trees, and was telt we had to cut them 
doon to build a biggin’ o’, I felt gey queer. It’s no’ an ill 
country, ma’am, when ye get used to it. An’ the sticks burn 
better nor the peat, though baith ways the fire’s like a hungert 
bairn, — aye greetin’ for mair. There’s water, ma’am, to wash 
yer face ; an’ I’ll dish up the jeuks that Rory Maclean shot twa 
days ago in the swamp, and they’re mair tender than the grouse 
or patricks on Craig Hulich. An’ to think that no’ three weeks 
ago ye walkit the auld roads, an’ saw the loch shinin’ in the sun ! 
But I maun awa’ ; I’m a stupid auld wife ! * 

4 How mony hae ye room for, Mary, at the table ?’ cried Donald, 
putting his Tam o’ Shanter round the door. 4 The Laird’ll no’ 
sit doon his lane.’ 

4 We could pit doon nine or ten. Bid the Laird wale them, 
an’ I’ll bring cups,* Mary answered back ; and what a laughing 
and joking there was over the Laird’s 4 walin ! ’ He chose all 
the old folks, and when they were gathered round the board 


« THE CAMPBELLS ARE COM IN'. 


35 1 

was himself the only young one among them. His mother sat 
by his right hand ; and then, after Donald had asked the 
blessing, in a broken and quite inaudible voice, Fergus got up 
to his feet. 

4 Friends,’ he said, and his manly voice shook, and the red 
flush of deep emotion spread all over his handsome face — 4 friends, 
I want to thank you in my own and my mother’s name 
for ’ — 

He came to a sudden stop, and then the awkward pause was 
filled by the sudden music of the pipes striking up the lively air 
of ‘Lady Anne Lindsay.’ So Fergus laughed, and sat down. 
Then the 4 jeuks,’ all brown and savoury and tender, were set 
before him to carve, and he was so hungry he made short work 
of them. Ellen Macleod sat very quietly by his side, sipping 
the delicious tea, and enjoying Mary’s dainty morsels to the full, 
but not saying much. She was content to stay in the back- 
ground and let the boy be first. But she was no restraint upon 
them, for the few words she spoke were so gentle and kind that 
they looked at her in wonder, and reproached themselves for 
the misgivings they had entertained about her coming. It was 
a merry, merry meal. What a questioning and answering ! 
Fergus was sore put to it to speak and eat with all his might 
at once ! As was to be expected, they were eagerly interested 
in all the Fauld news, — in Katie Menzies’ marriage to young 
M 4 Bean, and poor Malcolm’s misdoing, which had resulted in 
the untimely end of the factor. He had been a harsh task- 
master to them, but they genuinely deplored his grievous 
death. Late that night Fergus sat up round the fire, with the 
smith and James Stewart and old Rory Maclean, talking of the 
prospects for him in the place. They were of the brightest. 
There was a large farm, the greater part of which was cleared, 
and with a good house and barn attached, for sale at North-East 
Hope, about six miles from Fergus Creek. The price was 
about three thousand pounds ; and as Fergus had in hand, 
with his own and his mother’s means, about two-thirds of that 
sum, there would be no difficulty about the purchase. The old 
settlers had been keeping their eye on it ever since they heard 
tell of the young Laird coming, and there was little to do but 

30 


35 2 


SHEILA. 


see those who had the selling of it, and enter into possession. 
The owner had died suddenly, and his widow and daughter 
were anxious to realize, and go to Toronto to live. 

In a very few weeks’ time all these arrangements were made. 
Fergus and his mother saw and approved the place ; the deed 
of purchase was drawn out and signed ; and the end of June saw 
the little household from Shonnen settled among all the familiar 
furnishings in a roomy and comfortable frame farm-house, and 
Fergus Macleod a Canadian landowner in his own right. 




CHAPTER XLL 

A maiden’s heart. 

Alas ! for the years that lie 

Between love’s reaping and sowing! 

J. B. Selkirk. 


AILSA was extremely puzzled over the denoue - 
it of the interesting love affair between Sheila 
1 Fergus Macleod. She could not understand 
at all, and felt aggravated with the foolish 
young man for deliberately turning his back upon good 
fortune such as lies in the way of very few ; and not good 
fortune only, but as sweet and winsome a wife as any man 
could ever hope to win. When she thought how much her 
own Alastair, to say nothing of half a dozen others, would have 
given for the chance, it made her feel very sore against the 
independent young scion of the house of Macdonald. But 
then she knew nothing of the undercurrents, for dearly as 
Sheila loved her aunt, there were some things she could not 
tell her. The secret of Fergus’s fall was safe wdth the women 
who had witnessed it. Where the interests of their employers 
were concerned, Jane Cameron and Je-s:e Mackenzie could 
be as silent as the grave, so that eventful New Year’s eve 
never became the talk of Amulree. Lady Ailsa knew per- 
fectly well that Sheila cared for Fergus; her difficulty now 
was to understand the condition of the young man’s mind 



354 


SHEILA . 


towards her. The very thought that her darling might have 
given the whole precious wealth of her heart unasked, and to 
an unappreciative or unresponsive soul, filled her with indignant 
sorrow. 

She was sitting over her sewing in her own boudoir one cold, 
chill May afternoon, thinking over it all, with a little heightened 
colour in her face, and rather a vexed expression about her 
mouth. Sheila was a care to her ; and it was perfectly plain 
that since the Macleods left Shonnen the child’s spirits had 
deserted her. And yet she would not leave Dalmore, where she 
was moping and eating her heart out about something. Lady 
Ailsa was planning a little trip to the Riviera for herself and 
Sheila, and made up her mind that Alastair should spend a week 
or two with them there. For if Fergus had deliberately retired 
from the field, why, then, there was a fair chance for another, 
and why not Alastair, who, though too happy and sensible to 
grow morose and melancholy over one girl’s refusal, would no 
doubt be only too glad if Sheila would relent? The very thought 
of such a happy ending brought a delicious smile to Lady Ailsa’s 
face, and it was on her lips when the door opened suddenly, 
and Sheila herself came in. She had on her riding habit, but 
had put off her hat and gloves downstairs, and her hair was all 
blown about her face by the rough east wind, and there was 
the loveliest blush of the rose on her fair cheek. 

‘You witch! I was thinking of you. Did you divine what 
I wanted?’ said Aunt Ailsa, with her warm greeting. ‘But 
how dare you come to Murrayshaugh in that costume ? When 
did you begin to make formal calls upon your relatives ? * 

‘Never, auntie. Don’t bother me. Let me sit down here, 
see, just at your feet,’ said the girl wearily, ‘and don’t ask me 
a single question, or say anything. I’m going to speak by and 
by, Aunt Ailsa, after I am rested, and can find words.’ 

She threw herself on a stool at her aunt’s feet, and, folding 
her arms on her knees, laid down her head, and a long, shiver- 
ing sigh broke from her lips. Aunt Ailsa’s kind eyes filled 
with keen concern. She saw the child’s heart was breaking, 
for now that the transient flush brought by the wind’s caress 
had faded, her face was quite pale, and her expression sad 


A MAIDEN'S HEART. 


355 


almost to hopelessness. She did not speak, but laid her motherly 
hand above the girl’s slender pale fingers, and Sheila caught 
it, and laid her cheek against it. So they sat in silence for a 
time. 

4 Aunt Ailsa,’ came at length very low from Sheila’s lips, 

4 do you think it makes God very angry, if sometimes, when 
we are very wretched, we think we would not mind very much 
though death came to end it all ? ’ 

4 My Sheila, these are not fitting words from your lips,’ Aunt 
Alisa replied quite gravely, though her lips trembled. 4 God 
has blessed you, my darling, above many.’ 

4 Oh, I know He has, and I am not ungrateful,’ was the girl’s 
passionate answer. 4 But sometimes, auntie, I think it would 
be so easy to be poor, and even not in good health, if other 
things were different. Is it wrong to think that I have too 
much care ? I can never remember a time when something 
did not weigh upon my heart. I have never been quite happy, 
I think, since mamma and I lived down by the river. It is 
so hard to grow up.’ 

4 1 know what weighs upon your heart, my darling. I under- 
stand it all,’ said Aunt Ailsa softly. 

‘Not quite, auntie,’ returned Sheila quickly. ‘You know 
some things, but not all. It was very hard to bear when they 
went away,’ she added simply, and without affectation. 4 But 
there is something else. It happened nearly three weeks ago, 
and I have been trying to think what would be the right thing 
to do, Aunt Ailsa. I have found papa’s will.’ 

4 Bless me ! Sheila, are you always harping on that old fancy 
yet?’ 

4 No. I have found it, and here it is, Aunt Ailsa. See, I 
have brought it to you to read, for I have nobody in the world 
now, but only you.’ 

She drew the folded scrap of paper from the bosom of her 
dress, and gave it into her aunt’s hand. Lady Ailsa put on her 
eyeglass, and scanned the few words which were of such serious 
import to the girl at her knee. 

4 1 never heard of such a thing! ’ she cried indignantly. 4 It 
was wrong and cruel of Macdonald to do this, Sheila. I cannot 


35 6 


SHEILA. 


help ifc, if I speak harshly of the dead. Why did you go 
poking about in odd corners, seeking this to your own heart- 
break, child ? ’ 

4 1 didn’t poke ; it came to me. I suppose the time had 
come,’ said Sheila, with a dreary smile. Then her colour rose, 
and her lips trembled. 4 Do you quite understand it, auntie — 
do you see the wretched, miserable position it puts me in ? I 
am offered to Fergus Macleod, and he is bribed, as it were, to 
take me. There is no condition put upon me. Suppose I had 
to refuse him, he would be kept out of Dalmore, and cofrld 
feel aggrieved. It is a shameful thing ! ’ 

4 Shameful ! It is a disgrace and a sin ! * quoth Lady Ailsa 
hotly. 4 Let me toss it into the fire. I wonder you did not do 
it at once, child.’ 

Sheila shook her head, and turned her face away to the 
window, and watched the green tree-tops bending to the 
wind. 

4 Sheila, tell me truly. I must know everything. Has 
Fergus ever spoken a word of love to you ? ’ 

4 No, never,’ Sheila answered, with her face still averted. 
4 But — but I know — at least I think — he would, if things were 
different.* 

4 You care for him, then, Sheila? ’ 

4 1 am afraid I do, Aunt Ailsa, very much,’ Sheila whispered ; 
and the sweet colour flushed all her face again, and she was 
fain to hide it. 

4 Then there need not be much fuss or vexation about it, 
Sheila,’ said Lady Ailsa, with a quiet smile. 4 Mr. Colquhoun 
need only write a few liscreet words to our exile, then there 
will be the wedding chimes and the happy ending, and, I’m 
sure, very thankful will I be to get you off my hands. You 
don’t know what a responsibility and care you are to me.’ 

But still Sheila only shook her head. 

4 1 suppose he must be told ? ’ she said at length, in a low, 
doubtful voice. 

4 In the interests of justice, if of nothing else, he must,’ 
Lady Ailsa answered significantly. 

4 And what do you suppose he will do ? ’ 


A MAIDEN'S HEART. 


357 

‘ Take passage home in the next steamer, if he is in his right 
mind.* 

‘ If I thought he would do that, Aunt Ailsa, I would go 
away somewhere, and hide myself for ever ! ’ said Sheila passion- 
ately. ‘It is a shame ! It is just a bribe. I suppose few 
could resist it. Do you think Fergus could ? * 

‘ Sheila, I do not understand you. There is something you 
are keeping back,’ said Lady Ailsa perplexedly. ‘ If you care 
for Fergus, and he cares for you ’ — 

‘ But I am not sure. I only said he might, if things were 
different,* put in Sheila. 

‘ And he cares for you,* repeated Aunt Ailsa steadily, 
‘ there need be no fuss about it. As I said before, this is 
not a time to allow foolish scruples to stand in the 
way. If you do, the happiness of both your lives may be 
lost. 1 

There was a long silence. Then Sheila rose to her feet, 
and gathered the skirt of her habit in her hand. Her face was 
quite pale and grave again. Her aunt thought she looked 
old beyond her years. 

‘The case, as we understand it, stands thus, then, Aunt 
Ailsa,’ she said quietly. ‘ I am in possession of Dalmore, but 
if Fergus Macleod should wish to marry me, it is his. If I 
should not wish to marry him, I may still remain in possession, 
and enjoy myself as well as a usurper can. The only thing, 
then, to satisfy justice will be to offer myself and Dalmore to 
Fergus Macleod, and await the result, — a very nice, enjoyable 
condition of mind to be in. I can amuse myself during the 
next few weeks in trying to anticipate his decision. Aunt 
Ailsa, don’t look at me so strangely. I am not very wretched, 
only it is so funny and dreary to be as I am.’ 

She drew herself up with a slight defiance, and pushed back 
her bright hair from her brow with a quick, nervous touch. 
Lady Ailsa’s whole heart ached for the child, and yet she saw 
that uttered sympathy at that moment would break her 
down. 

‘ Suppose we look at it from the ludicrous side, Sheila, — and it 
is very ludicrous, the way poor Dalmore has been tossed about,* 


358 


SHEILA. 


she said, with a smile. ‘You are going to have a very original 
love affair, my dear.’ 

4 Not original at all, — perfectly horrid ! ’ cried Sheila, with a 
little passionate stamp of her foot. 4 Never was girl tried as I 
am. I have a good mind to marry Ian or Alastair, if he will 
have me.’ 

4 Alastair won’t, my dear. There is only one man in the 
world for you, and you know it. Are you going to leave this 
in my hands, then, Sheila? ’ 

4 No; Mr. Colquhoun has seen the will, of course, and he is 
waiting my instructions. I will write to him to-night, and then, 
I suppose, I must just wait. Good-bye, auntie ; forgive me for 
troubling you. No, don’t ask me to stay, nor be kind to me at 
all. Just let me go away and fight out my own battle. It will 
all come right in the end. Good-bye.’ 

A hasty kiss, and the child was gone before her aunt could 
detain her. It had not been a satisfactory interview, and Lady 
Ailsa was left convinced in her own mind that there was some- 
thing between Fergus and Sheila she did not understand. 

Next day Mr. Colquhoun received his instructions, and a 
letter was sent to Fergus Macleod. It contained no superfluous 
writing, nothing but the lawyer’s notification that the copy of 
his uncle’s last will was endorsed. Then Sheila sat down to 
wait, and what that ^waiting meant for her no human being ever 
knew but Fergus, to whom she spoke of it reluctantly, in the 
happy after-time. This was a test for Fergus. It was to prove 
to Sheila what was really in him, — what depth and earnestness of 
purpose possessed the young man’s soul. She was torn between 
two hopes, two desires. Love hoped that the message would 
bring the wanderer across the sea ; but something else, the 
nobler side of her character as a woman, hoped that it would 
be — not yet. She prayed that he might be guided, that he 
would show himself as noble as the ideal to which Sheila hoped 
he would yet attain. It was a time of curious, searching trial 
for the girl ; it brought her very near that Heaven from which 
her strength came. Discipline was making a very perfect and 
exquisite character out of Sheila Macdonald. During the 
interval Lady Ailsa saw her frequently, but the subject was not 


A MAIDEN'S HEART 


359 


again mentioned between them. Lady ^dsa was scarcely less 
anxious about the result than Sheila herself. It was the middle 
of June before Fergus Macleod’s letter came to Dalmore. It 
was brought to Sheila in the drawing-room one sunny morn, 
and the servant saw her hand tremble when she saw the thin 
foreign envelope lying on the salver. She sat with it in her 
hand for a few minutes before she opened it. Her face was 
pale, her eyes troubled and heavy, her heart beating wildly. 
The words written within might mean so much or so little. At 
length she broke the seal, and these were the words she read: — 


‘Sunshine Hill, Fergus Creek, Ontario, 
May 31s£, 18 — 

‘My dear Sheila, — I received Mr. Colquhoun’s letter yesterday. 
I have already written to. him. You will allow me, I know, 
to say a few words to you ; although I have a feeling that it is 
a breach of my vow to address you so soon. It will be the last 
time, until, as I said, I can come and stand without shame in 
your presence. I think that hour will come some day. But 
for that hope and that resolve life would be very hard for me. 
You know as well as 1 can tell you, that I regret that the will 
should ever have been written, or when written found. It is 
not a just will; it might make a gnat deal of misery. As it is, 
I pray it may make no diffeience to you. You know, Sheila, 
without me telling you, what is the hope in my heart. You 
know that the world does not hold for me anything so precious 
as you. Dare I tell you this, Sheila, with the memory of the 
last night of the year before me ? I dare, because I must now. 
But I will not come back to tell you this in words until I have 
redeemed the past — until I have made myself worthier. I shall 
never be wholly worthy. If, when that time comes, Sheila, you 
can trust me for all time, God knows what it will be for me. 
But if not, or if in the interval of waiting you should see some 
one to whom you could give the trust I would ask, I will try 
not to be cast down. It has been a blessing to me that I ever 
knew you. As to the will, and the disposing of Dalmore, I 
refuse to have anything to do with it. In the meantime, I hope 

31 


360 


SHEILA . 


you will continue to be the blessing of the place. It has no 
interest for me now, except in so far as it concerns you. I ask 
you to forgive me if I have said too much. I could not have 
said less, I think, and made you understand. We are settled 
here on our own farm. My mother is happy, and the future is 
bright with promise. She knows all that is in my heart. I 
love my mother next to you. Strange that I should presume 
to write of love to you, but distance and circumstances are 
accountable for unexpected actions. I shall trespass no more 
till the time comes when I can stand an equal before you, and, 
if you are free, ask for your love. Give me your prayers, 
Sheila, and sometimes a thought. All my life and hopes and 
aims are bound up in you. I must lay down my pen. I could 
say so much more. It is not easy to stop. May God bless and 
take care of you, Sheila! I say it in deep reverence. — And I am, 
while I live, yours devotedly, 

‘Fergus Macleod.’ 

The June sun lay bright and golden on the bent head, on the 
sweet, downcast face, radiant with the sunshine of love. A load 
was lifted from off the child’s shoulders ; her heart was filled 
with that deep, unutterable gladness which comes only once. 
By and by, Fergus had his answer. It was very short, but it 
sufficed : — 

‘ Dear Fergus, — You will find me waiting when you come. 

‘ Sheila.* 


And so the probation began. 



CHAPTER XLII. 

l A JUDEECIOUS FRI CIIT.* 

The dear old places — 

So full of memories for you and mo ! 

J. B, Selkirk. 


0 letters passed between these young people during 
their probation. They were very loyal. Old Time 
was to work his will with them, but whatever 
change he might make in other places or in other 
hearts, his flight would find them the same. But they were 
not absolutely without news of each other, for Alastair and 
Fergus kept up a kind of desultory correspondence, and 
so there was a bond kept between the old world and the 
new. Fergus was making his way steadily, and prospering, 
Alastair could make out from his letters, though there was 
nothing of the spirit of boasting in them. He was farming at 
Sunshine Hill on the most approved principles, and had, indeed, 
inaugurated a new agricultural era in the district. He had not 
only raised the good land on his farm to the highest pitch of 
cultivation, but by degrees had redeemed the swamps by drain- 
age, and so added considerably to his estate. lie threw himself 
heart and soul into his work, and, having a quick perception, 
shrewd foresightedness, and promptness of action, he bade fair 
to become a rich arid successful man. He began to turn his 
attention to stock-raising, and had some of the best blood sent 

361 



362 


SHEILA. 


out to him, which opened up a new and fine field of enterprise. 
These things, of course, did not become accomplished facts all 
at once ; they were the growth of years. And here, perhaps, 
Fergus erred a little in his high-mindedness and independent 
resolve. In his consuming anxiety to do well, and to have 
something worthy to show as the result of the years, he forgot 
what the waiting might be for Sheila. His life was full of 
interest, of engrossing work and occupation ; hers was empty, 
and, in a sense, purposeless, and the time seemed to her fear- 
fully long. Sometimes the child grew sick of hope deferr* d. 
Dalmore was no longer a source of unceasing anxiety and care. 
Angus M>Bean the younger was such a true, kind, and faithful 
steward, that there was no longer any need for the mistress’s 
constant supervision. The relations between Dalmore and the 
Glen were of the most delightful description. So, in a sense, 
Sheila’s life became purposeless, and Aunt Ailsa was not at 
times without deep anxiety about her. The child seemed to 
be standing still. It was as if the development of her character 
had been arrested, — as if she had lost hold of the purpose of life. 
She stayed a great deal at Murrayshaugh, and generally 
wintered abroad with her aunt and uncle. Sir Douglas was in 
poor health, and the third winter after Fergus went away, he 
died at San Remo, and Alastair became Laird of Murrayshaugh. 
The happy, merry household was becoming sadly thinned. The 
lads were scattered, — one at Woolwich, one at Harrow, and one 
studying in Edinburgh. The other two were still at Glen- 
almond, though Gordon, the younger, was showing signs of 
restlessness, and threatened to emigrate to Canada after Fergus 
Macleod. Sir Alastair bore his honours meekly ; there was no 
fear of his popularity among the folk. He was dear to young 
and old, gentle and simple alike. He was engaged to be 
married to one of the bright English cousins who had been 
one of Sheila’s companions for a year at school, and Lady Ailsa 
was looking forward to abdicating in her favour. She had 
many a laugh about it, dear kind heart! she was thoroughly 
happy over it, and would make a snug home for herself and the 
younger boys not too far away. And thus matters stood five 
years after Fergus went away. At Easter, young Gordon 


*A JUDEECIOUS fricht: 


3 6 3 


rebelled altogether at going back to Glenalmond ; and, after a 
long talk with his mother, Sir Alastair decided to take a trip to 
Canada himself, in order to see what prospect there was in the 
new country for his young brother. He had another errand, 
too, which was spoken of but briefly between his mother and 
himself. 

‘And you can see for yourself what Fergus Macleod is doing 
out there,’ Lady Ailsa said. ‘ I am rather doubtful about him 
myself, Alastair. It is unlike a young man to wait so long and 
make no sign. It makes me sore to look at Sheila. And to 
think what matches she could have made in the interval ! But 
for that young renegade we would have seen our Sheila with a 
coronet on her brow.’ 

‘ Which would have been irksome to her, mother, unless 
Macleod had put it on,’ laughed Alastair. ‘ I confess I don’t 
share your fears about Fergus. He’s a fearsome, determined 
chap when he likes, and I can understand just how he feels. 
But I confess I think Sheila is wearying.’ 

‘If you tell him that, or even hint at it, Alastair, you stupid 
boy ! I don’t know what I shall do to you.’ 

‘Oh, mother, what do you take me for? Am I going to 
make our Sheila cheap to anybody?’ queried Alastair, in his 
boyish way. ‘No, no; trust me, I’ll only give Fergus a 
“judeecious fricht,’’ and won’t I enjoy it?’ 

Lady Ailsa smiled then. She could trust her big honest son 
with Sheila’s interests, so there was no more said. Sheila’s face 
flushed all over, and the tears sprang in her eyes, when Alastair 
rode up to Dalmore to tell his errand and say good-bye. 
Having made up his mind, he took out his passage at once, and 
everybody was astonished to hear of his sudden resolve. Sheila 
had been in the south country, spending Easter with a friend, 
and so had heard nothing of it until Alastair came to say good- 
bye. He talked a great deal about exploring the country and 
its prospects for the sake of Gordon, and only said, as he shook 
hands at the door, — 

‘ I’ll likely see Macleod, Sheila, if I am in his neighbourhood. 
Have you any message ? ’ 

But Sheila answered quite quietly, and, Alastair thought, with 


3<M 


SHEILA. 


a touch of coldness, ‘ No, I have no message. Don’t stay 
away too long, Alastair, or Aunt Ailsa and I will be miserable.’ 

There was a lump in Alastair’s throat as he looked at the 
sweet, pale young thing in her black frock, and he mentally 
resolved to make the ‘ judeecious fricht * as rousing as possible. 
So he kissed his cousin, and went his way. He sent no warning 
of his coming to the friends over the sea ; but, in spite of his 
careless, indifferent words to Sheila, he made straight as an 
arrow from New York to Ontario, and to the nearest station for 
Sunshine Hill. The railway had been extended since Fergus 
went, and the nearest station was now within eight miles of the 
farm. Alastair was amazed to find that there was not a horse 
or conveyance of any kind to be obtained for love or money at 
the station. But what was eight miles to him, accustomed as 
he was to doing his fifteen or twenty over hill and moor at 
home ? So, after getting directions for Sunshine Hill, he left 
his luggage, and started off. It was a very warm afternoon. 
Summer had rushed on apace after a tardy spring, and all 
vegetation was in an advanced state. The road was terribly 
dusty. Alastair sunk to the ankles at every foot, and before he 
had gone two miles began to feel out of sorts. He had rather 
admired the country as he came along. The grass had not yet 
been burned up by the intense heat, and all the peach and apple 
orchards were in bloom. But, as he laboured along the dusty 
road, with the hot, strong sun beating upon him, and nothing 
to relieve the glare, he muttered something under his breath 
which sounded uncommonly like 1 Beastly country!’ Tired out at 
length, he sat down on the fence, and got a cigar with which to 
solace himself. ‘ Believe I’ll sit here till sundown,’ he said com- 
placently, his irritation disappearing under the genial influence 
of his cigar. ‘ Hulloa ! here’s something coming. If it’s a gig, 
or even a cart, I’m in luck.’ It was a buggy, which to Alastair 
seemed a curious-looking affair; but the horse was a smart 
trotter, and the driver a pleasant-looking elderly man, evidently 
a farmer. He drew rein as a matter of course when he 
approached the stranger. 

‘ Good-day. Going far, eh ? ’ 

( To a place called Sunshine Hill. Do you know it?’ 


'A JUDEECIOUS FRICHT: 365 

4 Of course I do ; I’m going within half a mile of it. Get in. 
Warmish day.’ 

4 Rather ; thank you, I’m in luck,* said Alastair, as he jumped 
into the comfortable seat by the driver’s side. The leather 
cover was up, and it was delicious to be sheltered from the 
glaring sun. 

4 Stranger here, I see,’ said the driver very freely. 

‘Yes, just come over.’ 

4 From the old country ? Thought so. Any relation of Mr. 
Macleod’s ? ’ 

4 Only a friend. Do you know him ? ’ asked Alastair inter- 
estedly, for here was a fine chance of hearing some independent 
testimony about his friend. 

4 Know him? We all do. He’s one of our prominent men. 
He’s in everything — everything good, I mean. He’s a tip-top 
fellow, and the best farmer I ever see’d. I’ve been in the farm- 
ing line myself for forty years, but he’s learned me a thing 
or two.’ 

4 Has he really ? He is a successful man, then? * 

4 He’s a genius. I’ll tell you what. They don’t think much 
of the old country gentry here, but he’s thrown them all off 
their calculations. It takes a man with all his senses about him 
to serve Mr. Macleod.’ 

4 Is he so hard on them ? * 

4 Oh, bless me ! no ; but he knows everything, and he won’t 
let a slovenly bit of work slip. I don’t want no better recom- 
mendation with a man than that he has served at Sunshine Hill, 
and my mistress will tell you the same about the hired girls. 
Mrs. Macleod’s a real lady, but she knows what’s what. Come 
out thinking to settle, eh ? Fine country this. Look at that 
wheat, sir. Did you ever see its marrow? This is the kind of 
weather, now. Did you ever see sunshine like this in Scotland? 
No, you never did. I’m from Scotland myself ; out thirty-three 
year come September. Me and the mistress was home last 
year for the first time, and we couldn’t bide for the rain. Do 
you know what I told them at Carmunnock afore I came away ? 
I just bade them get Scotland roofed in or I cam’ back. Ha I 
ha!’ 


366 


SHEILA. 


The old farmer laughed, so did Alastair. His heart was 
light. The news of Fergus was good. 

‘Ay, he’s a fine chap, Mr. Macleod. He’s foremost in all 
that’s good. They’re going to make him the reeve of the town- 
ship next election.’ 

4 What’s that ? ’ 

4 A kind of general supervisor of all the interests of the 
district. He’s young, but he’s fit, very fit. See, yonder’s his 
barn. You can’t see the house ; it’s in the orchard at the back 
of the barn. We’ll be there in a crack. If you’re going to 
stay a bit at the Hill, we’ll be seeing you at our place. You’re 
gentry, I see; but we’re a’ ae kind here,’ said the farmer 
facetiously. 

4 I’ll be sure to come, thank you,’ said Alastair sincerely. 

4 Am I to get out here ? ’ 

4 Ay, an’ cut across the mangolds. You’ll see the house when 
you get by the bush there. Good- day. You’ll never settle in 
the old country, sir, after ye’ve been here,’ said the farmer, 
with a laugh. 4 Good-day.’ 

Alastair lifted his cap, and vaulted the primitive-looking 
snake-fence at a bound. The old man had put him in the best 
of humours, and he was full of delightful anticipation of his 
meeting with Fergus. It was nearly six o’clock now, and the 
sun, veering westward, had lost the fierceness of his heat. 
Shadows were creeping over the bush, and long, slanting yellow 
lines of light lay athwart the shingled roof of the barn. 
Alastair could see it quite well, as his long legs took him quickly 
over the dry furrows between the green bushy mangold tops. 
There were some cows wandering about the yard, lazily whisking 
their tails, and a lamb, with a tinkling bell on its neck, trotting 
about, nibbling the green grass near the fence. It was a peace- 
ful, plentiful picture ; and when a few steps more brought the 
stranger within sight of the picturesque house, with its wide 
verandah hung with green creepers and the purple clusters of 
the clematis, and surrounded on all sides by the wealth of the 
apple bloom, he stood still for a moment, and said aloud, — 

4 By Jove ! not bad for the backwoods. It’s a perfect 
picture.* 


'A JUDEE CIO US FRICHT.' 


367 


Presently, from out the wide-open doors of the barn there 
came a big stalwart figure, in shirt sleeves, and a big straw hat 
slouching over his shoulders, — Fergus himself, in his working 
garb, his honest face as brown as a russet apple with the sun. 
He caught sight of the trespasser in his mangold field, and put 
up his hand to his eyes to try and make him out. Alastair 
grinned, and his heart beat a little faster as he quickened his 
pace. He had a breadth of pasture to cross between the man- 
gold field and the yard fence, and as the distance between him 
and the waiting figure lessened, he saw quite well a curious 
change come upon the face of his old friend. At last they were 
within hail, and Alastair’s ringing voice, a trifle less steady than 
usual, broke the drowsy stillness. 

‘Hulloa! Fergie lad, anything to say to an old chum?’ 

‘ Alastair, as I’m alive ! ’ 

The face of Fergus twitched, his firm under lip quivered, 
and for a moment his keen blue eye grew dim. Then, in silence, 
the two men gripped hands, and looked into each other’s eyes. 
It was a moment of deep emotion for both, for they had been 
like brothers in the old time. 

Alastair was the first to speak. 

‘Never a word of welcome, old chap — eh?* he said, with a 
comical smile. 

‘Alastair, you — you duffer! not to write!’ Fergus managed 
to say at last ; but the light in his face was good to see. 

‘ You’re not sorry, then, to see a kent face?’ 

‘ Sorry ! ’ Fergus’s mouth twitched again, and he gripped 
Alastair by the arm, and began to march him towards the 
house. 

‘ When did you come ? Where have you come from ? 
What made you think of coming ? What do you want ? 
Did you come to see me?’ Fergus asked all those ques- 
tions in a breath, and Alastair answered them all in his 
own fashion, which made the glad light deepen in his friend’s 
eyes. 

‘ Shut up ! I want my tea, or dinner, or something. I’m 
famished. Here’s your mother.’ 

Alastair took off his hat, as Mrs. Macleod, attracted by the 


3^3 


SHEILA. 


sound of voices through the open door, came out on the 
verandah. 

‘ How do you do, Mrs. Macleod ? Any room for a tramp ? 
Too bad, wasn’t it, to steal a march on you?’ 

‘ Mr. Murray — Sir Alastair, I mean ! ’ 

Helpless surprise sat on the face of Ellen Macleod, but in 
a minute she recovered herself, and had a welcome for the 
stranger from over the sea which did his heart good. She 
looked at Fergus, and when she saw the expression on his face, 
she knew what it had been to him to leave the old land and the 
true friends there. 

‘Is it you, Alastair, really?’ he asked for the sixth time, 
after they had got into the house, and the tempting odour of 
the supper was about them. ‘Don’t vanish away. I’m afraid 
to lift my eyes off you, in case I discover that you’ve been an 
optical illusion.’ 

‘ A very substantial illusion, as Mrs. Macleod will find 
presently when I get at the table,’ laughed Alastair. ‘ I say, 
what a fine place you have here, and how immense it is to see 
you ! I tell you, I’m jolly glad I came.’ 

Just the same old Alastair, full of fun and boyish chaff. 
The old university slang sounded like sweetest music in 
the ears of Fergus. He dared not trust himself to speak, 
somehow. 

‘ I tell you I’m a fool, Alastair. I can’t do anything but 
look at you. Mother, is not it grand to see him ? ’ 

‘It is indeed, my son,’ Ellen Macleod answered; and as she 
passed by Alastair’s chair, she laid her hand on his broad 
shoulder, and smiled down upon him, and that motherly smile, 
so unlike anything he had ever seen before on the face of Ellen 
Macleod, completely upset Alastair, and he gave three cheers 
there and then. And after that the happy supper began, but 
nobody ate except Alastair, and he spoke all the time with liis 
mouth full. The face of Fergus was quite a study. In his 
wildest dreams Alastair had never imagined the meeting would 
be quite so glorious. In the sweet gloaming that evening, over 
a pipe of peace and love on the verandah chairs, the two friends 
talked over everything, past, present, and future, until it grew 


'A JUDEE Cl o us fricht: 


369 


quite dark, and the shy yotfng moon came up behind the dark 
belt of the bush, and the owls began to hoot and the ’coons to 
cry in the swamp away down in the hollow. Everything, I said ; 
but the name of Sheila was not mentioned, though the minds of 
both were full of her, and each knew it. 

1 1 say, Fergie,’ said Alastair at length, throwing himself back 
in liis easy-chair, 4 when are you coming over?’ 

4 Some day,’ Fergus answered. 

4 Row long will some day be of coming?’ Alastair asked 
dryly. 

4 1 don’t know yet. I haven’t made up my mind.’ 

4 Oh, well, if there is nothing particular you want to see about, 
I daresay it doesn’t matter much,’ Alastair remarked, with a fine 
indifference, which was yet full of suggestiveness. 

Fergus caught at it at once. 

4 There are two or three things I am anxious about, but the 
time has not come yet,’ he said rather hastily. 

4 When it comes, take care it is not too late for anything you 
may have set your heart on.’ 

Fergus started, and a look of apprehension crossed his 
bronzed face. 

4 Do you know what I think, Fergus? that you are an ass, and 
richly deserve to be told it,’ was Alastair’s next characteristic 
remark. 

4 What for?’ 

4 Most things, but one particularly^ I’ll tell you what, if you 
don’t look up Dalmore before long, I wouldn’t give a fig for 
your chance.’ 

4 What do you mean ? ’ 

4 What I say. No, I have no more information to give. I’ve 
thrown out the hint. Maybe I came expressly to give it. 
You’re an ass, Fergie, because you’re throwing away — well, the 
sweetest, jolliest girl in the world, and I only wish I had the 
chance. There ! it’s out now. I say, Mrs. Macleod, when do 
you lock up — eh? Isn’t it nearly ten? I feel uncommonly 
sleepy.’ 

Alastair rose lazily, and sauntered through the open door into 
the parlour. He looked back with a grin after Fergus, who 


37o 


SHEILA . 


took the three verandah steps at a bound, and disappeared 
among the apple trees. Then Alastair sat down beside Mrs. 
Macleod, and had a long, delightful chat with her. But he saw 
Fergus no more that night. 

The ‘judeecious fricht’ had taken due effect. 




CHAPTER XLIH. 
love’s crown. 

They were blest beyond compare, 

When they held their trysting there, 

Among the greenest hills shone on by the sun. 

Shairpe. 


B MACNAUGHTON, the stocking- weaver, was 
lying ill in his bed at Achnafauld. The rheumatics 
were not improving with age ; for months now the 
loom had been silent in the shop, and Rob seldom 
able to move farther than between the bed and the fire. But 
the brain was still busy, and his * sangs ’ were the delight of the 
mistress of Dalmore. He had a new one every time she came 
to see him. And that was very often ; for Sheila, as of yore, 
was ever to be found where her gentle presence and her bene- 
ficent hand could be of any service to others less blessed than 
herself. Rob’s worship of her was a very perfect kind of thing, 
though it did not find expression in a multitude of words. She 
was so absolutely free and at home with him, and he with her, 
there was no subject under the sun they did not discuss. Rob 
Macnnughton knew more of the inner heart of the young Lady 
of Dalmore than any other human being. They talked often of 
the exile who lived in the hearts of both ; and Rob was fain, 
fain to look upon his face and touch his hand again. He had 
sometimes thoughts of writing to him, and would have done it 

871 




372 


SHEILA. 


had the rheumatic hand permitted ; but though it was very 
pleasant to have Sheila write out his songs for him, he could 
not have asked her to put on paper what was in his heart for 
Fergus. It too nearly concerned her. Fob had a keen per- 
ception. He knew the curious, tender thrill of the sweet young 
voice when they spoke of Fergus, and it grieved his heart to see 
the wistfulness creep to her bright eye, that far-away look 
which told of the hunger of the heart. He was sore puzzled to 
understand what still kept the bairns apart, especially as Fergus 
was doing well and making money in America. But, of course, 
that was never spoken of. Rob could only wait and hope for 
the fulfilment of the greatest desire of his heart, to see Fergus 
Macleod and Sheila man and wife in Dalmore. He was greatly 
interested, of course, to hear of Sir Alastair Murray’s trip to 
America, and to know that he had met with all the Glenquaich 
folks, and found them in such prosperous circumstances. 
Alastair was making quite a tour of the new world; he had 
found his Canadian welcome so sweet that he had made quite a 
visitation at Sunshine Hill. But September found him making 
tracks for home again, and Sheila came along to the Fauld in 
the lovely gloaming one night to tell Rob his ship had arrived 
at Liverpool, and that he would be home next day at the 
latest. 

‘I’ll bring him along when he comes up, Rob,’ she said, 4 and 
you can ask him everything you can think of. Won’t that be 
far better than my telling?’ 

4 I’ll can speer mair particular, maybe,’ Rob admitted. 4 D’ye 
think he’ll be lang o’ cornin’ ? ’ 

4 No. I am going down to Murrayshaugh in the morning. 
I may stay till Saturday, and I’ll make my cousin bring me up 
early in the day, and after lunch we’ll come along. Will that 
do, Rob?’ 

4 Ay, brawly. Ye’ll be as fain as I am, likely, to hear the 
news. But it will be guid news, of that I am sure.’ 

4 Oh, so am I. Won’t it be pleasant to hear him tell what 
he actually saw? It is so different seeing the way of life there, 
so much more satisfactory than hearing about it.* 

A slight tremble shook the sweet young voice, and Rob knew 


LOVE'S CROWN. 


373 


that her heart was sore. Old, rugged, eccentric though he was, 
the secret of that maidenly heart was not hid from the stocking- 
weaver, and lie felt a great rebelling for his bairn. ‘Well, I 
must go, Rob, and ask for wee Nellie at the smith’s,’ said 
Sheila. ‘ Nine bairns, Rob ! What would Donald and Mary 
say if they saw so many crowded into their old house ? Mary 
would call it a “ potch,” wouldn’t she ? ’ Sheila laughed, and 
Rob’s eye twinkled. 

‘ Are ye ridin’, my wee leddy ? ’ he asked. 

‘Yes ; don’t you know my habit yet, Rob ? ’ 

‘ Maybe ; I ken it gars ye look bonnie. Ye are like the 
straightest birk in Shian woods,’ said the stocking-weaver, 
looking admiringly at the slim yet stately young figure. Sheila 
laughed again. Her heart had grown lighter. She felt 
happier than she had done for some months, perhaps because 
news of the exiles were so near at hand. 

‘ Oh, Rob ! you make me quite ashamed. Good-night now ; 
mind and take this before you go to bed. See, I will just 
make it all ready for you.’ 

She lifted the lid of the little basket, which Rob sometimes 
said could find its own way to the Fauld, and took out a dainty 
little pudding, and a bottle of cream, which she poured into a 
cup, and set it all ready for Rob, with the spoon and the plate 
lying to his hand. Had she no prevision, I wonder, of the 
eyes which watched her through the little window, watched her 
with a passionate light of love in them which might have 
stirred her heart ? With a kind good-night, at last she gathered 
up her habit and stepped out of the house. The gloaming had 
merged into darkness, but there was a big red moon lying 
behind the hill, the moon the reapers love. Sheila’s pony was 
browsing quietly at the burn -side. She took the bridle loosely 
over her arm, and, stepping across to the smith’s door, asked for 
the ailing baby. Then, from out the shadows of Rob’s corner, a 
tall figure stepped with one hasty stride and entered the 
stocking-weaver’s door. Rob looked up at the hasty intrusion, 
and somehow, when his eye fell on the familiar and dearly-loved 
face, he was not conscious of the surprise so unexpected an 
apparition might have caused. 


374 


SHEILA. 


‘Is’t you, lad, or a wraith sent to warn me o’ my end or 
yours?’ he asked, leaning heavily on his elbow out of the 
bed. 

‘It’s me, Rob, come back,’ said the unmistakeable tones of 
Fergus Macleod’s own voice. ‘ Just one grip, man, and I’m 
away. You know where.’ 

* She’s in the smith’s, sir,’ Rob answered ; and though Fergus’s 
iron grip nearly brought the tears to his eyes with the pain of 
his maimed hand, he never uttered a groan. 

‘ I know. Wish me good luck, Rob, and let me off. I’ll be 
here again to-morrow.’ 

So saying, Fergus wrung his hand again, and disappeared as 
quickly as he had come. Then Rob lay back in his bed, and 
wiped the sweat-drops from his brow. He was wildly excited, 
and made a new song before he slept, — a song, he always said, 
which was the masterpiece of his life. 

The pony was standing by the smith’s open door, so Fergus 
went round by the end of Rob’s house and out on the road. 
He did not know very well what to do. To speak to Sheila 
suddenly, or even to let him see her on the road, might startle 
her. He felt quite at a loss how to proceed. But speak with 
her that very night, that hour if possible, he must. He had 
endured the keenest torture waiting till Alastair should be 
ready to accompany him home. Alastair would not hurry 
himself for anybody, least of all for Fergus, and told him 
plainly he need not be so desperately impatient after he had 
waited philosophically so long, when nobody asked or wanted 
him to wait at all. There was truth in what ^Alastair said, — he 
had indeed teased his old chum unmercifully on the voyage. 
Fergus took everything in such terrible earnest, it amused 
Alastair intensely. 

Presently, the short, sharp click of hoofs gave warning of 
Sheila’s approach. Fergus looked helplessly round. There 
was no escape, unless he stepped the drystone dyke and hid 
himself behind it. So he just walked on rather stupidly in the 
middle of the white road until the pony came up. 

‘Fine evening,’ Sheila said, in her quick, pleasant way. ‘ Is 
that you, Peter Fraser?’ 


LOVE'S CROWN. 


375 


Then Fergus stood still in the middle of the road, and Sheila 
drew rein sharply, and her face became very white in the 
moonlight. 

‘Don’t be afraid, Sheila; it is I, Fergus Macleod. I came 
home with Alastair this afternoon, and when I went to Dalmore 
they told me you were at the Fauld, so I came.’ 

‘ Oh 1 ’ 

Sheila’s breath came in a quick, short gasp ; and Fergus saw 
her tremble. Had he dared, he would have put a strong right 
arm about the dear figure, but not yet. He did not know, 
indeed, whether he would ever have the right to do that. 
Alastair had succeeded in frightening him in earnest, for he had 
never given him the smallest satisfaction about Sheila, except 
to reiterate his assurance that he had better look after his 
chance. 

‘Have you nothing to say to me, Sheila?’ Fergus asked 
at length, when the deep silence became intolerable. Sheila’s 
face was bent very low over Rob Roy’s shaggy neck, and 
her lips were silent. Oh, how sweet the perfect curve of 
neck and cheek and brow seemed to Fergus, standing by her 
side. 

‘ Of course I am glad, Fergus,’ she said at last, and raised 
her head. Her smile was radiant, and she gave him her two 
hands, and he bent down and kissed them. Then he took Rob 
Roy’s bridle over his arm, and began to walk by the pony’s side, 
with his hand touching Sheila’s habit, and for a little time there 
was nothing more said. 

‘ Shall we go the old road, Sheila? it is quieter,’ asked 
Fergus, when they came to the turn of the Corrymuckloch 
road. Sheila nodded, and they went on in silence again, — a 
silence which was golden. All the passionate speeches which 
had been so near the lips of Fergus when the ocean rolled 
between, were swept away by the deep joy her own presence 
caused. 

‘ Why did you not write? Did you make up your mind to 
come all at once?’ Sheila asked at length, in a low voice. 

‘No; since ever Alastair came out I intended to come. I 
was afraid to write.’ 


32 


376 


SHEILA. 


‘Afraid! of what ?* 

‘ Afraid lest the news would not be pleasant to you. I wanted 
to see for myself. I thought if I saw your face I would know'.’ 

Sheila did not ask what he thought now. 

‘ It is five years, Sheila, since I went away/ he said at last. 

‘I thought it ten/ Sheila said simply; and Fergus’s hand 
moved a little, till his fingers touched her arm. But still he 
feared to speak. 

‘May I get down, Fergus? I should like to walk a little. 
0 no, thank you.’ 

She had vaulted lightly from the saddle before Fergus could 
lift her, and, fastening up Rob Roy’s bridle, she let him wander 
off at his own sweet will. He was a discreet beast, and 
accustomed to all his young mistress’s vagaries of mind. So 
they walked on a little way in silence, — a silence embarrassing, 
though passing sweet. Love’s barrier was in the way. In the 
depth of his strong feeling Fergus could not find words to 
bridge it. 

Presently Sheila looked round, and gave a little exclamation. 
‘ Oh, just look at the light on the loch ! * 

It was indeed a fairy picture ; the silver sheet gleaming in 
the broad white moonlight under a deep blue starlit sky, the 
dark hills encompassing it like a watchful guard. 

‘ It is not cold, Sheila ; will you stand a little at this gate ? ’ 
said Fergus, after a moment ; and Sheila stood still, with her 
round arm lying on the upper bar, and her face turned towards 
the Glen. Fergus, looking at it, thought the sweet outline more 
sharply defined, and saw a weary curve about the mouth which 
stabbed him to the heart. Sheila had not been happy in 
Dalmore any more than he in Canada. But he had yet to learn 
why she was not happy. He dared not believe that it was on 
account of him. ‘ I have come back, Sheila, as I said I would/ 
he began, in full, earnest, manly tones. ‘ When I went away, I 
said a great deal about coming back wealthy, and with some- 
thing to lay at your feet. I have nothing except a clean 
record for five years. In that time I have honestly tried, 
with God’s help, to live as He would have me live, and as 
you would like me to live. I have tried to live so that the 


LOVE'S CROWN. 377 

people among whom I lived would not be any the worse of my 

presence.’ 

4 But better — much better, Alastair told me,’ Sheila said, and 
her face was all aglow. She knew nothing of coquetry or 
affectation. She loved Fergus, and he was by her side, seeking 
her love. She would give it to him, not grudgingly, but out 
of the fulness of her heart. 

4 Now that I have come back, Sheila, when I looked on the 
old place, and saw the light on our hills, and most of all, when I 
saw your face, I knew that life holds nothing for me more than 
what is here. You know me, Sheila, — all I have been and am. 
Will you bridge the great gulf between your beautiful life and 
mine, and give me yourself? I can’t speak about my love. 
I will prove it to you, if you will try me, unworthy though 
I am.’ 

It was no dishonour to his manhood that his voice shook and 
his eye grew dim. Sheila never spoke, but her smile became 
divine, and she moved close to him and laid her bright head 
on his broad breast ; and when he clasped her, as a man clasps 
Heaven’s best gift, her hands met about his neck, and her soft 
cheek touched his. And so, among their own hills, within sight 
of the loch and the clachan, with which were interwoven the 
bright memories of bairn days, these two entered upon that 
new life in which God permits His creatures to taste of 
heaven. 


And so Love the Omnipotent healed all old sores, made 
rough places plain, and smoothed the tangled skein into a web 
of silken sheen. Fergus Macleod left the Glen no more until 
he took his wife with him. There was no reason why the 
marriage should be delayed. Sheila, who had found the 
waiting so dreary, did not say nay. She had an absolute trust 
in her young lover ; she had proved him to the uttermost ; and 
she was willing — nay more, unutterably glad — to give herself 
to him without a question or a doubt. Fergus accepted this 
trust, which always brings out all that is best and most worthy 
in a man, with a humble and yet confident heart. These weeks 


373 


SHEILA. 


before the wedding were a dream of happiness which they 
thought could never be excelled. They had so much to tell, so 
much to speak of. Sheila’s beautiful and simple life needed no 
revealing; but Fergus told her all that was in his own soul. 
He had a high ideal, towards the attainment of which he would 
strive with all the manly might God had given him. To live 
that life nobly, to do to the utmost whatever duty lay to his 
hand, to accept every responsibility as from God, — when such 
was Fergus Macleod’s estimate of life’s purpose, I marvel not 
that Sheila went forth by her young husband’s side with a 
heart filled to the brim with womanly pride and unspeakable 
trust. His care for her was a thing of which I cannot write. 
She was more precious to him than life ; so, in the shelter 
of that brave and stalwart arm, we can leave our Sheila 
safe. 

They were married in the drawing-room at Dalmore on the 
fifteenth day of October, and on the twenty-third sailed from 
Liverpool for New York. The honeymoon was to be spent at 
Sunshine Hill, where the mother’s heart was yearning over 
them, and waiting for their coming. It was not like going to 
a strange land, Sheila said laughingly, for wherever Donald 
and Mary Macalpine were, there would be a bit of home for 
anybody from Glenquaich. 

They spent the winter in Canada ; and in the spring, when 
the trees were in bud, and the primroses yellow on the banks 
of the burn, they came home to their own. That was a great 
day for the Glen. And Ellen Macleod was with them, — a sweet- 
faced, gentle, kindly woman, who worshipped her new daughter 
with a devoted love. She abode with them till the festivities 
of their home-coming were over, and then retired to her own 
house of Shonnen, from which she could look across to the 
sunlit windows of Dalmore. They asked her to share their 
home ; but she, being wise, kept to her own biggin’, but spent 
many a long day at the old house, and rejoiced over the bairns 
there with a joy which had in it sometimes a touch of pain. 
For in the old days she had missed much herself, and caused 
others much needless pain. 

But peace and love and happiness reigned at Dalmore and 


LOVE'S CLOWN. 


379 


in the Glen, and the last days were better than the first. Fergus 
fulfilled all the best promise of his manhood, and became a 
power for good in the neighbourhood. As for Sheila, she was 
content. Love was her life’s crown. 

Husband and wife took many a trip to their Canadian 
estate, which Fergus left under competent management ; 
and so the ties were not severed between the old world and 
the new. 


Glossary of Scotch Words 


A’, all. 

Abe, be. 

Aboon (or, abune), 
above. 

Aboot, about. 

Adae, either. 

Ae, one ; only. 

Aff, off. 

Aff-pittin’, patting off. 
Aff-putten, cast off. 
Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Aince (or, ance), once. 
Airth, earth. 

Amang, among. 

Ane, one. 

Anent, concerning. 
Anither, another. 

A’ t h i n g, all things ; 

every thing. 

An Id, old. 

Ava’, at all. 

Aw^’, away. 

Bade, staid. 

Bairn, child. 

Baith, both. 

Ban net, bonnet. 

Bau Id, bold. 

Bawbee, a half-penny. 
Behaudeu, beholden. 
Ben, in. 

Ben-end, parlor or sit- 
ting-room ; kitchen. 
Bide, stay. 

Biggin, building, house. 
Binna, be not; is not. 
Birr, to make a whirring 
noise. 

Bluid, bl<>od. 

Bode, same as bade, 
staid. 

Bonnie, or bonny, beau- 
tiful. 

Bonnieness, cleverness. 
Bothy, hut, cottage. 
Brae, a hill-slope, ac- 
clivity. 

Braw, fine. 

Brawly, finely ; well. 
Braid, broad. 


Bricht, bright. 

Brither, brother. 

Brocht, brought. 

Brunt, burned. 

Buik, hook. 

Buirdly, stout; broad- 
made. 

Bund, bound. 

Burn (or, burnie), rivu- 
let. 

But and ben, back room 
and sitting-room. 
Byre, cow-stable ; sheep- 
pen. 

Cairn, a mound of 

stones. 

Canna, can not. 

Canny, gentle ; well-dis- 
posed. 

Cauld, cold. 

Ceevil, civil. 

Certy, for certain, sure ; 
indeed. 

Chairge, charge. 

Chap, tap ; thrum. 
Cheep, chirp ; a word. 
Chiel (or, ehield,) young 
man. 

Claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Clash, talk; converse; 

gossi p. 

Clod, cloud. 

Coont, count. 

Coorse, course. 

Crack, talk ; gossip. 
Cratur, creature. 

Craw, crow. 

Creep ie, stool ; hassock. 
Crood, crowd. 

Croon, crown. 

Croose (or, crouse,) pert ; 
bold. 

Cutty, short; small in 
stature. 

Dae, do. 

Daffing, sporting. 

Daft, foolish ; mad. 
Dauchter, daughter. 


Daur, dare. 

Daurna, dare not. 
Dawtie, darling; one 
doated on. 

Deave, deafen. 

Dee, die. 

Deed (or, deid), dead. 
Denty, dainty. 

Didna, did not. 

Dinna, do not. 

Disna, does not. 

Div, do. 

Dochter, daughter. 
Donnert, stupid. 

Doo, dove. 

Dool, grief, trouble. 
Doon, down. 

Doot, doubt. 

Douce, grave ; serious. 
Dour, grim. 

Dowie, sad. 

Dreich, slow; tedious. 

D r o o k i t, drenched ; 

drowned. 

Droon, drown. 

Drucken, drunk. 
Dumbfoondered, amazed. 
Dune, done. 

Dwine, dwindle. 

Ee (or, e’e), eye. 

Een (or, e’en), eyes. 
Eerie, timorous ; afraid. 
Efter, after. 

Efternune, afternoon. 
Embr o, Edinboro’ ; 
Edinburgh. 

Eneuch (or, eneugli), 
enough. 

Ettle, intend; aim at; 
attempt. 

Even doon, downright. 

Faithkr, father. 

Farl, cake. 

Fash, trouble ; annoy. 
Fashious, helpless. 

Faur, far. 

Faut, fault. 

Feclit, fight. 


GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS . 


Feckless, worthless ; 
feeble. 

Fecklessness, careless- 
ness. 

Fell, keen or keenly. 
Fend, provide. 

Ferlie, wonder (con- 
temptuously); a fancy. 
Fesh, fetch. 

Fit, foot. 

Flichter, flutter. 

Flooer, flower. 

FI ure, floor. 

Flyte, s^old. 

Foundry, foundry. 
Forebear (or, forbear), 
ancestress ; ancestor. 
Forbye, besides. 
Foment, opposite. 
Forrit, forward. 

Foucht, fought. 

Frae, from. 

Freend, friend. 

Freni, strange. 

Fricht, fright. 

Fule, fool. 

Fushionless, incompe- 
tent. 

Gae, go. 

Gaed, went. 

Gaffer, direct. 

Gait, way. 

Gane, gone. 

Gang, go. 

Gar, make. 

Gawn, going. 

Gear, goods ; property. 
Genty, elegantly formed; 

neat; high-bred. 

Gey, very ; pretty. 
Geyan, very. 

Gie, give. 

Gien, given. 

Gif (or, gin), if. 

Girn, grin ; snarl at. 

G 1 a i ke t, thoughtless ; 
foolish. 

Glisk, glimpse. 
Gloaming, twilight. 
Gomeril, fool ; dolt ; 

blockhead. 

Goon, gown. 

Go wan, wild daisy. 

G rabbit, grabbed. 

Grat, cried. 

Grawn, grand. 

Greet, cry. 

G rue, shudder ; shiver. 
Grund, ground. 

Gude (or, guid), good. 
Gump, wade. 


Hae, have. 

Haen, had. 

Haena, have not. 

Hail (or, hale), whole. 
Hairst, harvest. 

Hame, home. 

H a n 1 1 e, a handful ; 

much ; many. 

Hasna, has not. 

Maud, hold. 

Havena, have not. 

Heid, head. 

Helpit, helped. 

Hing, hang. 

Hinna, have not. 
iiizzie, young woman ; 

tom -boy. 

Hoo, how. 

Hoolet, owl ; owlet. 
Hooly, slowly. 

Hooly! take leisure; 
stop ! 

Hoose, house. 

Ilopit, hoped. 

Houp, hope. 
Howdy-hole, closet. 
Howin, hoeing. 

Hubble, confusion. 

Ilk or ilka, each ; every. 
Intae (and, intil), into. 
Ither, other. 

Jimpy, little; neat; 

slender. 

Jist, just. 

Kebbuck, a cheese-cake. 
Keek, peep; look 
sharply. 

Keepit, kept. 

Ken, know. 

Kenna, know not. 

Ken n in’, knowing. 

Kent (or, kenned), 
known, knew. 

Kep, cape. 

Kin t ry, country. 

Kirn, harvest home ; 

harvest feast. 

Kittle, ticklish; nice; 

intricate. 

Kye, cows. 

Laird, lord ; a land-pro- 
pr etor. 

Lairn, learn. 

Lammie, little lamb. 
Lane (his, her, its, etc.), 
alone. 

Lang, long. 

Lauch, laugh. 


Lave, remainder ; rest. 
Leddy, lady. 

Leal, loyal; faithful. 
Lee, lie. 

Len’, loan. 

Leeve, live. 

Liclit, light. 

Lichtlie, sneer at ; treat 
with contempt. 
Lichtit, lighted. 

Likit, liked. 

Limmer, a wanton. 
Lippen, trust. 

Lookit, looked. 

Lug, ear. 

Lum, chimney. 

Ma, my. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most. 

Maister, master. 

Maitter, matter. 

Mane, fuss ; ado. 

Maun, must. 

Maunna, must not. 
Micht, might. 
Midden-dvke, garden 
wall ; ditch. 

Mirk, dark. 

Mi I her, mother. 

Mony, many. 

Moosie, mouse. 

Mou\ mou I h. 

Muckle, much. 

Muirland, moor. 
Muue-licht, moon-light. 

Na (or, nae), no, not. 
Nae, none. 

Naebody, nobody. 
Naething, nothing. 
Neebor, neighbor. 
Needna, need not. 

Neist, next. 

Nicht, night. 

Noo, now : at the noo, 
at present ; at once. 

Ocht, aught. 

Ongauns, goings on ; 

doings. 

Ony, any. 

Oo, yes. 

’Ooman, woman. 

Oor, our. 

Oot (or, ooten), out ; 
out of. 

Oucht, ought. 

Ower, over. 

Oxter, arm-pit. 

Paidl’t, paddled. 


GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS. 


Pat, pot. 

Patrick (or, paitrick), 
partridge. 

Peety, pity. 

Pit. put. 

Pleeshure, pleasure. 
Pooer. power. 

Poo’rless powerless. 
Prig, cheapen ; dispute. 
Prood, proud. 

Puir, poor. 

Putteu, put. 

Quate, quiet. 

Quean, servant - maid ; 
young woman. 

Rael, real. 

Keek, smoke. 

Reem, run over. 

Richt, right. 

Bin, run. 

Roond, round. 

Roup, sale. 

Rowau, the mountain 
ash. 

Rowth, plenty. 

Sae, so. 

Sair, sore ; very, 

Saut, salt. 

Scone, cake. 

Scoor, scour. 

Sboon, shoes. 

Sic (or, siccan), such. 
Siclit, sight. 

Siller, silver. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, siuce ; after. 

Sin syne, afterward. 
Skelly, squint. 

Skep, hive for bees. 
Slippit, slipped. 
Smeddum, spirit ; met- 
tle. 

Snell, biting; severe; 
sharp. 

Socht, sought. 

Sodger, soldier. 


«, V 


Spate, flood. 

Speer (or, spier), ask 
for; inquire. 

Speer it, spirit. 

Stanes, stones. 

Steer, stare. 

Stoop, a prop; a post 
fixed in the earth. 
Stoory, dusty; stormy. 
Stoppit, stopped. 

Stour, dust. 

Stracht (or, strecht), 
straight. 

Stravage, wander or 
stray. 

Studo (or, studer), stood. 
Sune, soon. 

Sutteu, set. 

Syne, after ; ago. 

Tae, to. 

Tapsalteerie, topsy- 
turvy. 

Tatties, potatoes. 

Telt, told. 

Tempit, tempted. 

Thack, thatch. 

Thae, those. 

Thegither, together. 
Thocht, thought. 

Thole, bear; endure. 
Thon, those. 

Thowless, slack ; lazy ; 
heedless. 

Th rap pie, throat; wind- 
pipe. 

Thraw (or, throw), twist; 

quarrel ; be cross. 
Thrawn, cross ; perverse; 

quarrelsome. 

Thrawn ness, perversity. 
Thraid, thread. 

Till, to. 

Toon, town. 

Twa, two. 

Twal’, twelve. 

Unkent, unknown. 
Unco, very, straugo. 



Unneeborly; unneigh- 
borly. 

Uphaud, uphold. 

Verra, very. 

Wad (or, wud). would. 
Waddin’, wedding. 

Wae, sorrowful ; sad. 
Waggit, wagged. 

Wanlit, wanted. 

Wark, work. 

Warld, world. 

Warst, worst. 

Warstle, struggle. 

Waur, worse. 

Weans, babes; children. 
Wechty, weighty. 

Wee, little. 

Weel, well. 

Whae, who. 

Whan, when. 

Whatten, what ; which 
one. 

Wliaur, where. 

Wheen, a number; a 
good deal. 

Wheesht, be calm, hush. 
Whiles (or, wliyles), 
sometimes. 

Whing, cry ; complain ; 
fret. 

Wiuna, will not. 
Withhaud, withhold. 
Workit, worked. 

Wrang, wrong. 

Wudna, would not. 
Wull, will. 

Wullint, willing. 
Wunner, wonder. 

Wush, wish. 

Yammer (or, yaumer), 
fret; scold. 

Yestreeu, yester even- 
ing. 

Yett, gate. 

Yirls, earls. 

Yont, beyond. 














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